


You Know You Got to Go Through Hell Before You Get to Heaven

by bagheerita



Series: Collected Tales of the OOOT-verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Comic Book Science, Condoms, F/F, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Language, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shower Sex, Tony/Bruce is the only explicit relationship, Webcam/Video Chat Sex, alcohol use, my MCU is massively more understanding than the real world, original characters in supporting roles - Freeform, vague reference to a canon abusive parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 66,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagheerita/pseuds/bagheerita
Summary: Bruce sticks around Stark Tower after the Avengers repel the Chitauri invasion, and Tony deals with the Mandarin and the collapse of SHIELD. Meanwhile, Clint finds out someone's been telling him a mess of lies, and Sam discovers that sometimes what you're about to go looking for finds you instead.(This is OOOT's backstory for "Prime" universe. This one is mostly a rewrite of the events after Avengers up to and including CAtWS.)





	1. You Know You Got to Go Through Hell Before You Get to Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Each of this work's four chapters is narrated by a different character. The chapters are arranged vaguely chronologically but can mostly be read independently of each other.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce sticks around Stark Tower after the Avengers repel the Chitauri invasion.

**Location:** Universe MTYTYA, Designation: Prime(Alpha)  
_New York_  
Stark Tower  
_18 months pre-anomaly_  
_(10 hours after Thor & Loki depart for Asgard)_

Somehow, after all the chaos of the Battle of New York, as it is coming to be called, Bruce finds himself trailing after Tony. It's not as if he has anywhere he needs to be, other than _away_ , and Tony is like a magnet. He attracts and repulses in equal measure according to the charge of the subject. To Bruce, that pull is undeniable.

They're on the first floor of R&D in Stark Tower- which, other than the trashed penthouse, didn't suffer much in the way of structural damage despite being ground zero for an alien invasion- and Tony is talking a mile a minute, diagrams, equations, experiments, all dancing in the air under his fingers in displays of light. Bruce can only watch, mesmerized and perhaps a bit exhausted. Tony doesn't seem to mind. Every time Bruce can manage enough to make a comment, Tony seems exhilarated to find that Bruce _understands_ what he's talking about. It's... quite a high, to be the focus of Tony Stark's attention like that.

When he finds Tony again the next day, the other man looks up and grins at him like someone who has finally found his soul mate. That, in and of itself, should make Bruce want to run; people who care about him get hurt because of him. But there is a challenge in Tony's eyes, and Bruce can't resist that. He is as interested as Tony is in the results of this experiment. He may expect a poor return, but it's not like he's learned to stop using himself as the subject. Tony is a new variable, and it thrills him to think what that could mean.

 

After the aliens, everyone goes their own way again. Thor is gone; Steve and Natasha are with SHIELD; Bruce hasn't seen Clint but can only imagine he's buried under tons of required psychiatric evaluations and paperwork, and the kind of guilt that Bruce could probably identify with. Bruce settles in at the Tower, with Tony. He's got a room, and a private space in the lab, and JARVIS to fill both with whatever he requests. With nothing to fight and no need to run, the Other Guy is only a quiet rumble in the back of his brain.

The Other Guy... Hulk. Things have been different between them since the battle, when Bruce chose Hulk, chose to relinquish control to him, recognized that Hulk had something to contribute to the fight. The rage bleeds away when he can express it by reducing alien monsters to so much carnage, but it always returns, beating at the back of his eyelids. It simmers, like a flask over a flame in his lab, and while he finds that a watched flask boils over too quickly, if he doesn't keep a close _enough_ eye on it it often explodes unexpectedly. Finding that balance has gotten easier but it still doesn't come readily.

Bruce has a phantom memory, of catching Iron Man out of the air as he fell from the portal. He can feel the suit pressed against him, the stillness of Tony inside it. But it was someone else's arm that he's remembering; he was just a passenger.

 

He gets a furtive letter from Betty. He hasn't heard from her since he sent her back her mother's necklace. The envelope's been stamped and forwarded and passed through security until there's barely a clear space left on it, and it was sent care of Stark Industries. He's actually impressed she found a way to find him; with this and not with an e-mail that can easily follow him around the world, but which can be traced and intercepted with far more ease as well. The first words he reads are, _I saw you in the footage from the invasion_ , and he realizes she gambled on the fact that she _knows_ him and how he reacts; like no one else, Betty understands how deeply he _wants_ things. Her words are like salt and sunlight- stinging in a cut, but warm and caressing on his skin. She misses him; she is frustrated with her father; she has gotten married. The news is not surprising. He misses her, too. But he doesn't. What he misses is a time in his life when the things he wanted seemed simpler, and the attaining of them seemed a path that, though hidden, it was not difficult to follow.

 

And there's Tony. They see each other almost every day, in the larger lab floor Tony had redesigned after the invasion- knocking down walls the aliens weren't courteous enough to knock down for him- and they spend most of those days together working on whatever. Upgrades to Tony's suit, Bruce's biochem experiments he thinks will produce helpful research, and sometimes Hulk related tests that Bruce can't believe he lets Tony talk him into. And sometimes they spend hours just talking, Tony tossing up his glowing equations to dance in the air between them. It's the sexiest thing Bruce has ever seen, and that's not even taking into account the hints that Tony is not so subtly dropping. Tony's not being as blatant as Bruce would imagine he usually is, having heard quite a bit about Tony Stark's social life, but it would be hard to miss the fact that Tony would not be the least bit opposed to their relationship becoming sexual.

Bruce resists. He's attracted; he knows Tony knows that, because he knows Tony values their friendship enough to stop hinting if it made Bruce uncomfortable. But Bruce is playing out this experiment, and he doesn't want to escalate the variables too quickly. In his head he can already read the probable results, and it's far too likely everything goes up in flames long before he's ready. Bruce likes it here. He feels comfortable. He likes Tony. He doesn't want to lose this.

It's hard to resist, though. When Tony's eyes are swimming in the ecstasy of perfect equations, and Bruce wants those eyes to look at him like that; when Tony's hands are delicate and graceful as they manipulate data streams, and Bruce wants to know what those fingers would feel like on his skin; when Tony's stripped down to his tank top, the muscles on his arms sharp against his skin and outlined in sweat, his hands stained with grease and oil as he swears up a storm, and Bruce wants to know what he tastes like.

 

Bruce can't tell if Tony is an optimist or if he's just used to getting everything he wants, but he redesigns Stark Tower with the upper levels devoted to Avengers related business. There are individual floors for everyone; if he had no idea what to do with his own massive lab, Bruce isn't sure what he's going to do with an entire floor. Maybe he'll figure it out before Tony has a chance to get everything built.

There are safety measures for the Hulk, Bruce insisted on that. Despite his opinions on the subject of the Other Guy, Tony doesn't resist. It's not until they get into the specifics that Bruce realizes that while they are talking about the same thing, Tony is coming at it from the opposite angle. What Bruce sees as hopefully unnecessary but realistic containment, Tony sees as potential release and experimentation. "Strutting," as he puts it. Bruce isn't sure if he can argue if he's already getting everything he wants. Though it worries him that he can't change the way Tony feels, weirdly enough there is a shimmer of calm to the anxiety that chases the anger that burns under his skin. Hulk likes Tony's ideas. Bruce would be less worried if he didn't agree.

 

The first time Hulk makes an appearance in the lab is kind of a mistake. Bruce is distracted and he grabs the potassium chloride instead of the potassium sulfate to add to the solution in his flask, and the resulting explosion is enough to singe his eyebrows. It's not usually the kind of thing that would bring out the Hulk; Tony's always exploding things in his workshop without any Hulk related incidents. But Bruce is tired as well as distracted, and damn Tony for making him think about the other man's tight ass when he should have been concentrating on what he was doing.

Hulk crushes the flask in his hand and roars. He smashes the table with Bruce's experiment and turns to swing his fist through the shelving unit behind him. The lab space is tight around him, but without the comfort or protection of a stone cave. He listens, for the angry voices, the clacking sound of guns.

"Hey, green bean. How's it hanging?"

Hulk stops and whirls around. A man is standing, watching him, leaning nonchalantly on the doorframe. "Metal Man," Hulk says, identifying the voice, the smell of oil. "Not metal?" Everything is quiet except for his voice bouncing off the walls. There is no screaming, no sound of bullets. Just the soft hum of machinery and the harsh smell of chemicals. The machine sound can also be a bad sound, but mostly it is Banner's sound. He rumbles softly- Banner, Banner's fast thoughts, he knows this room, Banner comes here, does his Banner work, and Metal Man comes many times as well, speaks fast words.

Not-Metal-Metal Man grins, the expression splitting his face. "Yeah, not today. Do you want me to be metal? I could suit up, if you want."

Hulk shakes his head, confused. No one asks him what he wants. "Small," he says.

Metal Man looks around the lab shrewdly. "It is a little tight in here. Come on, come over here." He beckons Hulk through the door where he's standing.

Hulk peers through the door and snorts. "Small."

Metal Man is standing in a short hallway, shrouded in darkness, and he grins again. "It opens up, I promise. Do you want to check it out?"

Hulk thinks about it. Banner remembers where the hallway leads, but everything is bigger to Banner, even the hallway. "Smash," he replies.

"I can get you some stuff to smash. Or do you want to stay in there and smash Bruce's stuff? He'll love that, I'm sure. We could get you to decorate the rest of the Tower, too. It could be a theme."

Hulk frowns. "Metal Man talk too much. Ask too many questions."

"Okay." Metal Man sits down in the doorway at the opposite end of the hall. "No more questions," he says simply, and falls silent.

Hulk tenses. Usually when men stop asking Banner questions they start striking Banner. But Hulk remembers Metal Man likes Banner. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncertain. "Metal Man is good."

Metal Man's smile is soft. "Thanks, big guy. You saved my life, so I'm gonna say I think Hulk is good, too."

Hulk scowls at him. "Hulk protect Banner."

Metal Man nods. "I know. Thank you. I think Bruce is good, too."

Hulk harrumphs. "Banner stupid."

And Metal Man laughs, a light, loud sound that echoes around like in a cavern. He's lying on his back, arms across his stomach, laughing, and Hulk can tell that the room on the other end of the hallway _is_ bigger because the sound is bigger. Hulk grumbles a bit, but he moves through the hallway to where Metal Man is sitting.

"Tony," Metal Man says, looking up at Hulk from the floor.  "My name is Tony."

"Tony," Hulk repeats, bored. He looks up at this room. The ceiling soars above him so far he thinks even he might not be able to touch it, but he could if he wanted to. The room spreads out side to side, not as far, but enough that there is room for Hulk to move. "Good room."

"Didn't I say so, buddy?" Tony sounds _happy_ , and Hulk looks at him warily. The only person he has ever heard sound that happy is Ross right before he makes something explode. He growls to think of Ross, but Tony distracts him.

"Look here." Tony points to a well-organized pile of scrap metal. "Smash?" he suggests.

Hulk rumbles. He moves like a strike of lightning, and he is there, smashing. The sound echoes in the tall room and he throws pieces of metal at the tall ceiling, embedding the shards in that ceiling so far above. Hulk turns and there is another pile of metal and sheets of stone, but on the top the piece is red. Hulk picks it up. The metal bends in his fingers and he drops it and steps back. "Metal Man," he says sorrowfully.

"You called?"

Hulk turns again and Metal Man is behind him, hovering in the air. Hulk roars, pleased.

Metal Man lands and his metal face comes up and Hulk can see his true face underneath it. He smiles at Hulk.

Hulk pokes the red piece from the pile of scraps.

"You are quick, aren't you?" Metal Man says. "That is the color of my armor, but not exactly up to snuff in the titanium alloy department." He looks up at Hulk. He is standing close, and he reaches out and rests his hand on Hulk's arm. "You're not going to hurt me."

Hulk freezes, a low growl rising up through his throat. But Metal Man doesn't move. He is watching Hulk's face. "You could if you wanted to, but I know you don't want to," he says again. "Tell Bruce you know what you're doing, okay?"

Hulk takes a step back. "Not Banner."

Tony narrows his eyes, his expression knowing. "You don't have to _be_ Bruce right now if you don't want to, just tell him. You're a goddamn hero, Hulk. He of all people should know it."

Hulk scowls at Tony. "Banner stupid."

Tony's look is one of commiseration. "That's the truth, isn't it big guy?"

Hulk is frustrated and he smashes the pile of stones, and he smashes the red metal sheet just to let Tony know that he's frustrated with Tony, too. But Tony doesn't seem to notice because he shoots powerful blasts from his hand that smash almost as good as Hulk can.

Hulk sighs. "Metal Man." He sits back on his heels. There are no loud noises, except for the echo of his smashing, and there are no angry men with guns. "Good room," he says, but he is done with it for now. Tony lands in front of him and Hulk rests his hand on Tony's shoulder. He doesn't really notice when that hand starts shrinking.

Bruce shivers and blinks himself awake. He's leaning heavily on Tony, who is wearing his Iron Man suit. "Oh god," Bruce swallows, the fingers of his hand closing reflexively around Tony's shoulder, and he wonders why he has his hand on Tony's shoulder anyway.

"We have to stop meeting like this, Doctor Banner," Tony leers, but he turns away when Bruce walks unsteadily back to his lab and finds a pair of pants that hasn't been torn to shreds in the remains of the closet.

"What happened?" he asks Tony. "How did you get him to switch?"

Tony rolls his eyes. "He was bored, Doc. He thought you burning your eyebrows off was a sign of the Second Coming, when it turns out you just need to remember to have JARVIS double check all your work when you haven't slept in more than sixteen hours. Easy peasey. He smashed some scrap metal and he was done."

Bruce can't believe it, but there are no gaping holes or large dents in the outer wall and Tony is refreshingly un-bloodied. "That's..." He's not sure what that is. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"It means he likes me," Tony says. He's shed the Iron Man armor and he comes toward Bruce. He rests his hand on Bruce's shoulder in a way that strikes Bruce as an odd mirror to his own gesture earlier. "Bruce, you have to know, he's not as bad as you thought." He holds his other hand up in appeasement before Bruce can even voice his protest. "I'm not saying he's ready to start walking grandmothers across the street and do community service with at-risk teens, but you _have_ to admit: He can recognize friend from foe. He can follow orders. He can choose not to hurt people."

Bruce's mouth opens again, but he closes it without saying anything. He knows more than he's willing to admit to, even to Tony. Tony's hand squeezes his shoulder. "Think about it. I actually have a meeting in California, so I'll see you in a few days." Tony's eyes are full of some emotion that Bruce is still too raw to examine carefully. He nods, and Tony leaves.

 

Tony is actually gone for a week and a half- ten days and seven hours. Bruce isn't keeping track or anything, but he _has_ been thinking, a lot, and there are some things he wants to talk about with Tony. He almost asks JARVIS to put a call through to California... but, whatever Tony's doing is probably important. He knows Tony wouldn't mind being interrupted, but it's probably better for whatever Tony's doing that he not be distracted. Bruce can wait.

Instead he opens a new file and starts compiling the scattered data from his most pressing and most overarching experiment. It's hard to quantify some of the variables but he really needs to calculate this. It has gone past the matter of controlling escalation, because _that_ has entered the territory of inevitability. The most significant variable is time, and how much he thinks he can steal from fate.

 

Bruce had asked JARVIS to let him know when Tony got back, and now he's practically vibrating with his need to talk to Tony as he makes his way up to the penthouse. Which ends up not going like he planned because whatever Tony was doing in California has left him in a filthy mood.

JARVIS lets Bruce into the main room of Tony's penthouse without any pause, but when a shoe goes sailing through the air to smash into what looks to have been a very expensive painting, Bruce gets the feeling he wasn't exactly expected.

Bruce freezes next to the elevator. "Tony?" he calls, tentative.

"Bruce?" Tony sounds surprised and pleased. He comes around the corner. His shirt is half unbuttoned and Bruce can clearly see the glow of the arc reactor through the thin cloth of his undershirt. The smell of alcohol is strong. "Hey, I was just heading down to the lab," Tony says. He finishes unbuttoning the shirt and throws it toward the room behind him, kicking off his other shoe and leaving it where it falls. "I need to work. You coming?"

There is a part of Bruce that very much wants to say no. Tony moves with barely controlled rage and the smell of alcohol is making his blood pressure go up. This is not going to end well. Bruce closes his eyes. But- it's _Tony_ , _Tony is good, Tony smashes good, Tony likes Banner, Tony likes Hulk_. And Bruce opens his eyes and smiles. "Of course." He leads the way to the elevator, JARVIS taking them down to Tony's lab, and he doesn't ask about California.

Tony works through the night and the next day. Bruce eventually falls asleep on the futon in the corner; he's learned his lesson about sciencing when he's not paying attention, but he feels like he shouldn't leave Tony alone. When he wakes it's to find Tony kneeling beside him, watching him. Tony grins, the expression much more like his usual self, and neither of them mentions the last eighteen hours.

 

Tony has another episode two days later. Bruce is having JARVIS compare two massive data readouts- he's trying to measure if the portal that opened over the city exerted any sort of gravitational pull, like a black hole can- when Tony comes walking in. It's late, but not that late, and Tony has a haunted look on his face that has Bruce immediately gripping the table and asking, "What's wrong?"

Tony smiles breezily, the look on his face falling invisible behind an easy mask. "Nothing, nothing, I just had an idea, it'll keep. You finish, I'll wait." And he sits on Bruce's spare stool, spinning idly and looking at the floor, before he pulls out his phone and starts murmuring to JARVIS.

Bruce barely believes him, but he goes back to finishing the data comparison, because what else is there? He's not comfortable poking at other people's wounds when his own are still so raw. His other project, the experiment where Tony is the variable? He's starting to see some interesting data returns there. The worst thing about it is that he can't discuss his results _with_ Tony.

Bruce is so busy thinking that he doesn't notice that when he finishes Tony drags him out of the lab in search of fresh coffee and begins a debate on string theory, something on which they have wildly differing opinions. Between everything, Tony never gets back to why he came into Bruce's lab in the first place.

Bruce has some theories. Even for someone as prone to self-destruction as Tony, it's not every day that a person flies through a wormhole to another galaxy.

 

It's with that in mind that Bruce stumbles onto Tony's secret project.

Bruce is supposed to be on his floor, which is completed and with which he still truly has no idea what he's going to do. He thought about turning part of the frankly enormous space Tony envisioned as a meditation area into a full dojo instead. Bruce is supposed to be supervising the installation of the mats and screens, but he's not the type to micromanage and he leaves it to JARVIS and returns to his and Tony's joint lab.

Tony has a couple different blueprints pulled up in the space around him and Bruce stops beside the door and watches him, because he loves watching Tony work. When he starts to pay attention to what the blueprints are though, Bruce feels a shiver run up his spine. Open to Tony's left is a close up of an addition to the Iron Man suit's arms, what looks like vibranium bracers around the suit's wrists and covering the outside of the arms up to the shoulder. There is an outline of Captain America's shield and there are calculations in the margins; Bruce is too far away to read them but he _knows_ they show the impact stress of vibranium.

Those plans are sitting to the side, forgotten for the moment. In front of Tony, what he's working on at the moment, is a completely new suit design. It's huge, more of an exoskeleton than the Iron Man suit's usual tight fitting form. It's rounded from the head to the shoulder, not allowing much gap at the neck. The calculations are for tons of pressure. "Three isn't going to be enough," Tony mutters to himself. "JARVIS-" He reaches for the bottle of water sitting on the floor and stops dead as he looks up and sees Bruce. Tony's eyes are wide and he tenses. "Save and close," he finishes. The glowing blueprints vanish and Tony smiles at Bruce. "Hey, Bruce. I thought you were upstairs. Wanna get started on constructing the data collector for Part Two of your gravity project?" Tony is such a good bullshitter, but this time his smile isn't quite bright enough to be convincing.

Or maybe it's just that Bruce _saw_. He saw everything and he's not going to let Tony slip out of this. "You don't have to pretend, Tony. I saw the blueprints. You have bracers specifically for deflecting Cap's shield. And you have armor for Hulk, for fighting him. You have more, don't you? For everybody. Ways to take us down." He walks forward.

"Bruce..." Tony licks his lips. If he was anyone else Bruce would say he looked nervous. "I... it doesn't mean...." He runs his fingers through his hair roughly. "It's what I do. I think of things and..."

"Tony." Bruce reaches out and rests his hand on Tony's shoulder. Tony looks up at him, caught in the act but still fearless. "It's good that you do that."

"What?" Tony looks like he truly can't believe he just heard the words that Bruce said. His face darkens. "Bruce, if you start talking about how he's a monster, I swear-"

"No. But he is- he could be- dangerous. I..." Bruce swallows. "I know you've always been the Other Guy's biggest fan, but it makes me feel better to know that you're _thinking_ about it, and you're not just blindly accepting." And truly, it makes a jittery, nervous part of his mind relax.

Tony is surprised, but he smiles. It's his usual disarming smile but there is more than a trace of bitterness to it. "I have some experience getting stabbed in the back when it comes to blind trust." His eyes rest on Bruce searchingly. "You're really not mad." It comes out a statement, but it feels like a question. "Pepper always tells me I'm paranoid. Even Rhodey wouldn't let me off without going a round. And you're not mad at all."

Bruce looks back at him. "Tony." He leans in. "I'm always mad. But not at you. Not for this."

Tony takes a deep breath, and he smiles again, softer this time, like he really believes they're okay, that Bruce is okay with this.

Bruce finds it kind of refreshing, dealing with Tony's issues instead of his own. Refreshing in how they rub each other just the _right_ way, usually without confronting each other directly. Tony has a specific way he sees the world. Bruce mostly wants to avoid the world. They meet over chemicals and equations, like ships in the night headed in different directions. Bruce wonders how long they can just stay here.

 

There's an incident in Pakistan, a terrorist group blowing up depots and stockpiling stolen Stark weapons. Bruce is pretty sure Fury would have SHIELD take care of it without any assistance from Tony, but Colonel Rhodes is the one who brings it to Tony's attention.

Bruce goes along, because Tony asks him to. And, just as with Fury and the helicarrier, Tony isn't completely honest about why he wants Bruce to be there. But, it's also different: because when Tony says that he wants Bruce along because Bruce speaks Hindi and passable Urdu, and can help with disarming any weapons they do recover, Bruce knows that what Tony really means when he says these things, not quite able to meet Bruce's eyes, is that he _trusts_ Bruce. That is an honor Bruce isn't sure he deserves, but he will do his damndest to live up to.

Working with James Rhodes is an unexpected pleasure. While Bruce has some deserved reservations about the military in general, he enjoys watching Rhodes' and Tony's interaction. They are obviously old friends, and Bruce can only smile at Rhodes' occasional sigh of long-suffering.

The terrorists claiming responsibility are a group called the Ten Rings. Bruce isn't sure at first why Tony takes that so personally, but Rhodes seems to know and sympathize, and Bruce is okay with that. There are parts of Tony's history that he doesn't know, but that's fine. There are parts of his own history that he never wants to revisit.

They manage to take care of the cell and recover the weapons, but there are whispers that the Ten Rings have a new leader, who is pushing the organization further than it's ever gone before. Tony is incensed and spends the next couple months working closely with Rhodes, trying to weed out and uproot every single cell of terrorists they can find. Bruce is back in New York, and there are weeks when he hardly sees Tony, but he understands, and he tries to give Tony something positive to think about when they are in the lab together. There is a prototype for a "magic" neutralizer that he's been toying with, and it serves perfectly as a distraction.

 

Bruce spends a lot of his time meditating. Hulk is always in the back of his mind, but more and more so lately Bruce finds that especially when he enters a meditative state, he can _converse_ with his alter ego. Or perhaps, alter id would be a better term...

It's not like they're writing Shakespeare or discussing Bell's Theorem or anything, but it's an... interesting experience. Getting to know how Hulk thinks is beneficial, not only because Bruce is learning about how to contain him when he rampages but even more so because while Hulk operates on a more instinctive level Bruce is teaching him how to communicate with Bruce and assess threats on an intellectual level.

"This way he can check with me before he assumes an explosion constitutes an attack, for example."

Tony frowns. "Not that I'm all for teaching the Big Guy new tricks, but what if he thinks about it too much? I don't want him thinking about the ramifications of not busting out in the middle of a United Nations summit when he could be saving your bacon."

Bruce's excitement fades, and he is reminded that while Hulk has never really bothered Tony they've also never particularly seen eye to eye when it comes to the Other Guy. "No offence Tony, but it's not about what you want."

Tony regards him for a long moment but shrugs and goes back to his acetylene torch.

Bruce is annoyed, but mostly because Tony is right. Well, not right so much as closer to the truth, which is that Hulk is instinctual. Bruce is getting better at talking to him, but just because they're talking doesn't mean that Hulk is agreeing with him anymore than he did before.

_Hulk protect Banner._

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. _Can you do it without hurting other people? Or breaking anything?_

Hulk seems confused.

 _Can we talk about levels of escalation?_ Bruce tries. _There are certain levels of threats that don't require your presence._

But Hulk is adamant. _Banner not good at levels. Hulk protect Banner. Only level._

Bruce sighs.

 

While Tony's out chasing the Ten Rings is the next time Steve stops by for one of his occasional visits. He's based out of DC, SHIELD keeping him busy, and only comes through New York rarely and usually without much downtime. Bruce would guess that the city has grown too strange for Steve to feel comfortable in- but guessing isn't very scientific. He knows Steve does like to check on how the rebuilding is going since the Battle, and he seems to be flying back and forth to England fairly often.

 

 

And then there's a point where the Ten Rings vanish, apparently from the face of the globe. No one knows where this supposed leader has disappeared to or if he's dead. Tony seems satisfied, for the moment. He starts to smile more, and goes back to badgering Steve to move to New York.

 

 

The day Bruce stops resisting Tony's magnetic pull entirely is like any other day. He's in the lab with Tony. They're working on an upgrade to the suit today, which is Tony's area. Bruce likes working on Tony's projects because when Tony looks at the things he's created his eyes fill with the most amazing expression. Bruce can't fully describe it. It's like love, and affection, and pride, and faith all rolled together. It's... irresistible. Bruce feels drunk on that look; he knows more than most how dangerous that feeling is. Tony looks up, and that look is fixed on Bruce in that moment.

Tony must see what Bruce is thinking on his face, because he immediately turns off the acetylene torch he's holding, setting it aside and whisking off his safety goggles. "Hey, Bruce," he says. His voice is low and husky.

Bruce isn't even consciously aware of moving, but suddenly his hand is cupping Tony's face. Tony leans in, his lips brushing against Bruce's, and Bruce leans back into him, his lips parting.

Tony moans as Bruce deepens the kiss. It's a sound of encouragement. His hands are in Bruce's hair, pulling him closer.

When they break apart, Bruce can feel his pulse has quickened to the point where it's amazing that he's still coherent.

Tony grins at him. "Your eyes are green." Bruce tenses, but Tony's voice has not a shred of fear. It never has. Instead, he sounds self-satisfied, pleased that he has caused this. Bruce pulls away, and Tony pulls him back. "Don't," Tony says, his voice soft but with an edge of demand. "Dammit, Bruce, don't. Don't stop now, please." He kisses Bruce again.

It's so fast, and Bruce takes a deep breath, but it's like each word he speaks requires all the breath he can give it, and he can't even finish a sentence. "I've never... successfully. He... the Other Guy... always... Heartrate..."

"A lot of things can raise your heartrate." Tony's fingers threading in his hair are gentle, but his voice is the calm detached observation of a scientist attempting to determine significant variables. "Fear, anger, desire. I can't believe he pops out for all of them."

Bruce shakes his head. "I tried. With Betty."

Tony raises an eyebrow. "When you were on the run, the army trying to kill you?"

"Yes, but-"

Tony's fingers cover his lips. "Hardly an environment for lowering your guard enough to enjoy yourself," he says. Bruce blinks. Tony raises an eyebrow. "He was protecting you. You weren't safe." His fingers move over Bruce's lips. "Do you feel safe here?"

Bruce looks into Tony's earnest eyes. _Hulk remembers the good room, with no angry men or loud bullets, and lots of nice smash._ Bruce takes Tony's index finger between his teeth.

Tony groans. His eyes are dilated and fixed on Bruce's mouth. Bruce feels his stomach flip over, and Tony is on him. Tony's lips cover his, and Tony has him backed against the lab table. His hands find their way under Bruce's shirt, and Bruce can feel the sharp pain as Tony tangles his fingers in Bruce's chest hair and pulls slightly. Tony groans again. "God, Bruce, I..." He shudders against Bruce for a moment, their bodies pressed together. Bruce wraps his arms around Tony in turn. He pulls Tony closer, the hard rim of the arc reactor pressing into Bruce's chest. Tony looks up at him, and for a moment, for the first time, Tony looks vulnerable, trapped. Bruce kisses it away; that look doesn't belong on Tony's face. He turns them, setting Tony on the table. Bruce tears Tony's shirt apart and presses his lips to the center of the reactor. Tony gasps soundlessly, his hands in Bruce's hair again. Bruce looks up at him. Tony's face is cast in the blue light of the reactor; Bruce knows his own eyes are still green. He can feel the greenness of it rumbling under his skin, but it seems content to stay there and not come out. Something fierce and _happy_ rushes through him.

Tony meets his eyes. He looks dazed. "Yeah," he says. Bruce doesn't remember asking a question, but he likes that answer.

Tony slides down Bruce's body, turning them around so that Bruce is backed up against the table again. Tony is kneeling before him. His nimble fingers make short work of Bruce's belt. He pulls Bruce's slacks out of the way and buries his face in the thick hair of Bruce's groin with a moan. He looks up at Bruce and his eyes are full of that look, that look of affection and pride and faith, and it's focused all on Bruce.

Bruce could get hard just from Tony looking at him like that, and he does. Tony makes a soft, happy noise, his fingers circling Bruce's cock. Bruce finds himself gasping at the unfamiliar and most welcome pressure against the stiffening flesh. Tony is watching Bruce carefully as he takes the glans between his lips and presses his tongue to the base of the corona.

The blood pulses hard through him, his hips twitching forward without any conscious thought, and Bruce thinks he might faint. "Dear god," he mumbles. "Tony." He reaches out with a trembling hand and cups the back of Tony's head. Bruce swallows and manages to say, "You shouldn't." He wants it so badly he's not sure he would stop Tony if he tried.

But Tony's an old hand. "Relax," he says. He stands enough to flick a drawer open and pull out a condom. He has it torn open and rolled over Bruce's cock before Bruce fully comprehends, and his lips follow eagerly.

"Fuck." Bruce is impressed, but any further words he could find to compliment his partner are lost in a desperate moan. Bruce cups Tony's head between his hands and looks at him in amazement.

Tony's eyes are sparkling and his experience is turning Bruce into a pile of incoherent _want_. His fingers are digging into the meat of Bruce's ass as he deep throats him with ease, tongue and lips working over his cock playfully.

It's too much, and it seems far too soon when Bruce feels the tightening in his balls that announces his imminent climax. His hand tightens in Tony's hair. "Tony, stop."

Tony's lips release his cock with a soft pop and Tony looks up at him, eyes quick and alert. "What is it?"

Bruce pulls him up so that he can kiss Tony's lips. Tony smells like him and tastes like strawberries. Bruce moans, taking himself in hand. "I'm gonna come," he murmurs, his face pressed against Tony's throat. "I want more of you."

Tony laughs softly and his fingers interlace with Bruce's own around Bruce's cock, pulling Bruce the last bit toward his climax. Tony is pressed against him, mouthing the shell of Bruce's ear as he murmurs words that are lost in the sound of Bruce's own blood pounding through his veins and Bruce turns in to him, breathes in the solid presence of him, the smell of oil and ozone and, underneath, the smell that is only _Tony_ , and he comes.

Bruce's mind goes white for a moment. When he comes back to himself he's still leaning heavily on the table, his breath ragged between his parted lips and his heart racing in his chest. He opens his eyes to find Tony gazing at him fixedly.

"Your eyes are less green now," Tony says in observation. "For a bit there you were going green all around the gills." He disposes of the condom and his eyes meet Bruce's again. "So? That's, what, your first climax in... how many years? How does it feel?" He grins cockily.

Bruce growls softly and kisses him. Tony's kissing him back, desperation in the way he's suddenly careless with his teeth. Bruce snakes an arm behind Tony's body and pulls Tony hard against him. And Tony is hard as a rock, cock pressed against Bruce's thigh. Tony moans through the kiss; he's shivering with desire.

Bruce's hand is stroking Tony's cock through the rough material of his jeans as his lips work their way down Tony's neck and over his chest. He has a nipple between his teeth and Tony is yelling a litany of, "god, fuck, yes, Bruce, oh fuck, Bruce!" that has Bruce hoping the lab is soundproofed.

"Fuck," Tony moans, his fingers buried in Bruce's hair, his lips pressed to Bruce's temple. "More, fuck Bruce, more." He shimmies against Bruce, and Bruce released him enough to strip his jeans off. Tony's shirt is a mess of rags from Bruce's attention earlier and with one hand Bruce tears the rest of it from Tony's body. Tony's sitting on the edge of the table and Bruce stands between his legs, hands on Tony's thighs. Leaning over, he takes Tony's cock in his mouth, and Tony cries out even more loudly if that's possible. His fingers are almost painfully tight in Bruce's hair.

Bruce hasn't overcome his gag reflex to the point where he can take Tony as deep as he wants to, and he has nowhere near Tony's experience. What he does have is several years’ worth of repressed desire wanting to be expressed, and a fair knowledge of anatomy. He puts those things to use, his mouth tracing lines all over Tony's hip and back up his stomach. Tony is already giving up an almost constant stream of erotic commentary when Bruce teases his opening with a slicked finger. "Oh _fuck_ yes," Tony yells. "I want you in me." He spreads himself more to Bruce, his feet pushing at Bruce's shoulders as he tries to find better purchase. When Bruce slips in a second finger, Tony's cries reach a new intensity, and when those searching fingers press against his prostate, Tony comes with a jerk and a softly murmured, "dammit, Bruce."

Their eyes are locked together and their joined hands are wrapped around Tony's cock as he comes, and even still as his body makes its way down from that high. Tony lies still for a moment, breathing hard, before he surges up from the table and kisses Bruce. The kiss is a filthy promise that they aren't done, not by a long shot, and Bruce moans against Tony's lips, ready to _finally_ learn what every inch of Tony's skin tastes like.

 

 

When Bruce wakes, he has his face pressed into the back of Tony's neck. Their naked bodies are wrapped around each other. They've migrated to the folded-out futon in the corner of the lab space. He stretches, pressing into Tony for a moment, lost in the feeling of warmth and _rightness_ , before his brain finishes waking up and panic stabs through him.

He untangles himself from Tony, his heart beating wildly.

His movement wakes Tony, who reaches for him. "What is it?" He looks like he's about to call for the suit.

"I... I don't know." And he doesn't, really. It's an instinctive feeling, that he is no longer safe here. "I have to go."

"No." Tony's denial is sharp and fast. "You are not leaving. Bruce... What happened? We're still good, right?"

Bruce opens his mouth, but JARVIS speaks.

"Sir, there is a General Ross downstairs insisting that he needs to speak with you."

Bruce feels the roar building in him, but he is paralyzed by the sheer unbelievability of it. Even here, and especially _now_ , Ross is ruining his life. He wants to laugh until he's crying, and he wants to _smash_ the shit out of Ross until he _can't bother them ever again_.

Tony's face hardens like stone. "JARVIS, level 12. I want him buried in lawyers."

"Of course, sir."

"Bruce." Tony cups his face, drawing Bruce's eyes to him. "It's going to be okay, Bruce. Breathe deep, big guy. You gotta believe me."

Bruce realizes he's starting to hyperventilate, but he can't seem to stop. Tony is throwing his clothes at him and pulling on his own. "Just give me a few minutes, big guy. I have an idea. Come on." The Iron Man suit is forming up around Tony. He's pressing something around Bruce's wrists and suddenly Bruce feels like the suit is swallowing him as well.

Which might be because it is. The refurbished Mark VII is wrapped around Bruce; when the helmet closes around his head he falls to one knee and raises his gauntleted hands to his head, trying to pull it off.

"Bruce." Tony's voice is in his ears, all around him. "Bruce, do you trust me?"

He's still breathing too shallowly, but fortunately it doesn't take much breath to say, "Yes."

They take off. Bruce can feel the air moving around him and he can see a blur of sky filled with the blaze of late afternoon sunlight, but he's not the one doing anything. The HUD is flashing information before his eyes; he can see Tony's face in the corner and that's all that matters. "JARVIS will handle everything," Tony says soothingly. "Just breathe deep, big guy. Give me five more minutes."

Bruce wants to reply, but he can't. He's pretty sure he blacks out for a few moments. He can hear Tony's voice.

The suit pulls away and disgorges him. Hulk hits the ground with a roar and rips into the nearest object. It's a massive tree, and he tears it from the ground and throws it. He whirls around. Where is Ross? Ross was here, the voice said so. But now Ross is gone. There are only trees around him, and armor that looks like Metal Man lying in pieces on the ground, and Metal Man himself landing not far away. Metal Man is Tony. Hulk roars at Tony, frustration surging up out of him. Ross is gone, but Ross keeps coming. If Ross was _here_ , in this place with only trees, it would be good because Ross would not have his many men with their weapons to protect him and Hulk could make this stop. But Ross is _not_ here. There are only trees. Smashing trees is fun but doesn't make Ross leave him alone. Hulk pulls up a tree taller than himself and throws it just for good measure before he paces in a circle around Tony, kicking up dirt and tossing boulders out of his path and growling under his breath.

Metal Man takes off his helmet. "I'm sorry," Tony says. He looks tired.

Hulk moves closer to him, placing his arm around Tony. His growl is a low rumble now. He's happy that Tony doesn't seem scared, but Ross is still out there. Tony is running his hand up and down Hulk's arm. He's taken off his gauntlet, and his bare skin feels good. Hulk can remember the way Tony feels; it's like a phantom memory, but he can remember the taste of Tony in his mouth.

"Stupid to be sorry," he says eventually.

Tony blinks at him. He seems to struggle with himself, but eventually asks, "Why? It's my fault. I should have known he would show up. I should have been ready."

Hulk growls. "Next time, bring Ross to trees," he suggests. "No army. Hulk smash Ross. Done."

Tony laughs, suddenly, the sound surprised out of him. "Oh buddy, if only."

Hulk grumbles, but Tony is leaning against him, so Hulk is pretty sure Tony isn't laughing _at_ him. He's pretty sure he doesn't want to smash Tony, but sometimes Tony makes that hard to remember.

"Can... Can I talk to Bruce?"

Hulk sighs. "Stupid Banner," he murmurs.

Tony laughs softly, but there is no humor in it and Hulk is worried. He's gotten used to Tony and Tony's constant energy, whirling through his thoughts right beside Banner. But Tony now looks so tired. Hulk growls. Tony is good, and Tony made the army not come and hurt him, so, even if Tony is being stupid about Ross, Hulk will do it this once.

Bruce blinks and there is sunlight beating down on him. Tony is in the suit, sitting next to him. Bruce curls on his side and groans. Tony reaches out and caresses his hair.

"It's okay," Tony says, and Bruce remembers that voice talking him through his panic.

Bruce jerks, pushing himself up from the ground and looking around. They are surrounded by trees. "Where are we?"

Tony's hand falls away. "Off Wittenberg Mountain, I think. Catskill Park, anyway."

Part of Bruce wants to ask, because he's pretty sure his version of "okay" is not the same as Tony's, but he also knows that Tony knows him. And he trusts that Tony wouldn't mislead him about this. He sits up and leans against Tony. The suit is cold against his bare shoulder. Tony leans his head down, resting his forehead against Bruce's temple. "Nobody got hurt," Tony murmurs. "Not even you."

Bruce laughs mirthlessly. "Just some innocent trees."

Tony tenses. "I'm sure Hulk will replant them if I asked." His voice is full of barely repressed frustration.

Bruce tenses in his own turn.

Tony stands, growling softly as he strips the suit off. He comes back to Bruce and kneels in front of him. He's wearing his grease-stained jeans from yesterday and Bruce's shirt. "Bruce, talk to me," he implores. "You have to meet me halfway."

Bruce looks up at Tony. "Halfway?" he repeats with a sharp laugh. Burying his hands in his hair, he curls in on himself. "Tony, you have everything. What do you want from me, other than a monkey that actually understands the question when you ask it whether polarizing the isotope would strengthen the chemical bond?"

Tony jerks back, stunned. "Bruce. I _never_... I... I thought you were enjoying yourself. I thought you wanted..."

Bruce hates the look on Tony's face. He reaches for Tony, his fingers catching in the material of his shirt and pulling him closer. Tony is tense and confused but he allows himself to be pulled. His eyes are narrowed, and Bruce can almost see the information scrolling behind those brown eyes. Bruce kisses him.

Tony pulls away. "Bruce, you have to tell me, honestly, that you want this. I can't... I want this, I want you to stay, but I can't be a part of your self-flagellation for every little thing that goes wrong."

"I'm sorry." He releases Tony and just watches him. "I... I don't play well with others."

Tony grins at that, the smile breaking wide over his face. "I can deal with it," he says. "But I need to know. You keep everything so close, I... Just, you have to _tell_ me what's going on with you, okay?"

Bruce ignores his words and watches him for a moment longer. "This is going to happen again," he says. "Me, saying things like that."

Tony nods and scoots closer, his legs interspaced in between Bruce's. "We can go back to before, if you want. Just be lab buddies." His fingers are holding Bruce's knee almost desperately but his voice reveals no regret. "If that's easier for you. Whatever you need."

Bruce shakes his head emphatically and places his hand over Tony's, taking hold of his wrist so he can't withdraw his hand. Tony sighs, a release of tension; he relaxes against Bruce and waits.

Bruce closes his eyes a moment and sighs in his own turn. It's past time he lay out some parameters. "I know you don't care about the... the Other Guy. And I know how much you enjoy having someone around who speaks English." He smirks at his own joke, but it's only half-hearted and he doesn't even get a grin out of Tony. Bruce looks away, out over the forest that stretches away to the horizon. "Really, truly, the faulty variable in this experiment is me. I'm what's going to make this fail, what's going to drive you away."

Tony is silent for a while. "You're not giving me any credit here," he says eventually. "It's not like I've..." His fingers are tracing equations on Bruce's kneecaps. "I accept the risks," he says instead of where the previous sentence was going. "You can't know the results when you haven't done the experiment yet."

"I've done this experiment before." Bruce smiles mirthlessly. "You do know what insanity is, right?"

"This isn't repeating the same." Tony's hand turns, and he twines his fingers together with Bruce's. "This time it's with me."

Bruce breathes in. It's that differing variable he's been so fascinated with, that he wondered would actually influence his results to the positive, which might be enough to tip the scales. "I want this," he says. "I want you."

Tony's breath is hot on his face, his lips pressing against Bruce's unshaven cheek. "Okay," Tony says, sounding satisfied. "You do know, you're never getting rid of me now, right?"

Bruce sighs. "We'll see."

 

Thankfully, Tony doesn't argue his point any more. JARVIS tells them that Ross has gone; they put their armor back on and fly back to the Tower as the sun is beginning to set over the city. Bruce takes this opportunity to really examine the feeling of flying in the Iron Man suit. He doesn't care for it. Feeling the press of the wind while not being able to plainly see the ground unnerves him, and he can't rid himself of the creeping sensation of claustrophobia with the helmet closed all around his head. Whatever he might be feeling privately, Tony has no problem keeping up a constant stream of words. They echo in Bruce's ears comfortingly. When they land on the platform outside the penthouse, Bruce tries to peel the helmet off before JARVIS can even disengage the faceplate lock.

"I've got you." Tony is beside him. He takes the helmet from Bruce and leads him to the center of the platform. "JARVIS, disengage," he says, and the armor shudders all around him as mechanical arms come out of the platform and collect the pieces of it from his body.

Bruce looks at Tony. "Thank you," he says. Tony smiles, but Bruce grabs his hand and adds, "For everything."

Tony's smile softens. "Bruce. This is your home." His face hardens. "No one is taking you out of it without your permission. No one."

Bruce can see this falling apart. Ross is unstoppable; he has the entire weight of the United States Army behind him and he is so focused on controlling Hulk that Bruce sometimes wonders how the man doesn't trip over his own feet in that he seems physically incapable of looking at anything else. But... Tony isn't as vulnerable as Betty. He has resources, money, influence. Maybe... Maybe this will work. Bruce wants this to work. He wants to let himself be selfish this once. Tony can take it. Tony is both strong and fragile, and a part of Bruce wants to break him just to prove to Tony that Bruce _is_ a monster.

He kisses Tony again. Tony's still wearing his suit and the arms are dancing around waiting for Bruce to get out of their way so they can remove it. Bruce doesn't care. He leans against Tony, and Tony leans down, their mouths meeting in a soft caress that deepens, lips parting to allow tongues to explore.

When Bruce pulls away, Tony is flushed, his breath quick and shallow, his pupils dilated. Bruce smiles, turns, and walks inside.

"Hey," Tony demands, but he has to wait for the arms to remove the rest of his armor before he can follow.

Bruce is laughing softly as he pushes open the door to Tony's bedroom, but he thinks also that it's good practice.

 

Bruce walks into the bathroom; he hasn't showered since before they were working in the lab yesterday so he has the shower started and he's under the spray when Tony's fingers steal over his skin. Bruce turns to him eagerly. They explore each other's bodies, refreshing knowledge learned last night, cementing it in the mind. Bruce is stubborn when he wants something, and it's not long before he has Tony pressed against the wall of the shower, Bruce's hands parting Tony's thighs as his finger traces a line down Tony's perineum and cups his sac. "I want to be inside you," he says as he leans in and presses a kiss to the back of Tony's neck. It seems a little much a little fast, but it's been burning under his skin for far longer than he's felt safe thinking it, and Bruce wouldn't do it without protection anyway so he feels safe confessing his desire. But Tony's eyes are shining as he flicks a condom up from his closed palm to hold it between two fingers.

Bruce fucks him hard against the wall of the shower, Tony's cries of pleasure driving Bruce's own. The raw heat of Tony's desire as he pushes back against Bruce makes the falling water feel cold in comparison even as it steams off of their skin. Bruce feels his climax building, like the events of the day have blown through every stopgap placed, and it sings through him, rumbling in green joy under his skin. He presses his lips to the back of Tony's neck, Tony shoving back against him and turning to claim Bruce's lips with a growl. Bruce trails a hand down Tony's body to grip his cock tightly, and Tony comes with a cry so loud Bruce is pretty sure then entire city heard it. Tony's reaching around, his hand on Bruce's face, and Tony is murmuring soft words, "Bruce, god, fuck, you're amazing, dammit Bruce," as Bruce finishes rising to his own climax.

They dry off and move to Tony's bed. Tony is languid and smug against him and Bruce could get used to seeing him like this.

 

 

It's the next morning when Bruce wakes. He's alone but he can hear voices, dimly, in the next room and he moves to get dressed. The remains of his torn slacks are gone from the floor in the bathroom so he raids Tony's closet. Tony is slightly taller than him, and Bruce is slightly broader, so it's not the best fit but it works. Bruce can't deny he likes it. The clothes are clean, but they still smell like Tony. Bruce wants to wrap himself up in them, go back to the bed, and take himself in hand.

Instead, Bruce steps out into the main room, expecting to find Tony watching the news or talking to JARVIS, but instead he finds Tony and Pepper Potts sitting at the bar.

Bruce freezes for a moment and Hulk tenses under his skin. He feels caught out, guilty. In the months he's been here, he and Tony have never really talked about Pepper Potts. Bruce has always been a bit sensitive to return questions on the subject of female acquaintances, and, he'll admit it to himself if to no one else, jealous of Tony and his ability to maintain whatever relationship he has with Pepper. Bruce knows Tony and Pepper are close; he's not certain how close. He doesn't know if what they did yesterday in the lab, and later in Tony's shower, somehow is counter to Tony's relationship with Pepper, or if Bruce is supposed to somehow disguise what he's doing here- in Tony's penthouse, wearing Tony's clothes, smelling like Tony's shampoo.

But Tony looks up at Bruce now and smiles. Actually, it's more of a grin; a proud, smug, and proprietary kind of grin, which almost screams to everyone in the room, 'yes, that's the guy who put the hickey on my throat that I'm deliberately wearing an open neck to showcase.'

Bruce relaxes and smiles back.

"Bruce, you know Pepper, right?" Tony gestures. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please, and no, we've not actually met." Bruce smiles politely. "Ah, good morning, Ms Potts."

She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Doctor Banner, good morning." She looks him over and glances at Tony sidelong. She seems amused but refrains from further commentary.

Tony rolls his eyes at their formality. "Guys, come on." He brings Bruce his coffee. Their fingers touch, and Tony's eyes are focused on his mouth.

Bruce licks his lips and says "Thanks." Tony is leaning toward him slightly and Bruce sways in, but they don't quite meet and then Tony steps away. Bruce drinks his coffee.

"So," Pepper says, "Tony was just telling me that you're not a fan of flying."

She's picked a topic in the middle ground between hot button and safe, and Bruce wonders how much she knows, to refer to the events of yesterday and yet so deftly avoid mentioning Ross by name. Tony looks like he feels as if he should be embarrassed- as if he's just realizing that maybe Bruce wouldn't want Tony discussing his discomfort with someone he's never actually met. But if they're going to be that open, Bruce can play that game.

"It's the claustrophobia rather than the actual flying," Bruce says easily. "I don't like things wrapped around my head."

Pepper seems darkly amused, but Tony is actually taken aback. "I didn't think," he says. "I can fix that. Probably. If you want..."

Bruce eyes him from over the rim of his coffee mug. "Shut up," he says affably.

Tony takes it the ways it's meant and the atmosphere relaxes significantly.

Pepper taps the folder she's left sitting on the bar. "Tony, don't forget to look this over."

"Pep," Tony rolls his eyes. "I always look at the stuff you leave."

"Mhmm." She rolls her eyes right back and stands. "This company wants our approval to fund their project, Tony. I want your opinion before I give their CEO my firm answer."

"Ha, you mean you want to know what I can reverse engineer off the information you got from this guy."

Pepper rolls her eyes again. "What I really want is something specific about this project that I can tell him is the reason we're _not_ going to fund it. He's extremely persistent, but his scientists have been doing good work with our intellicrops department and I'd rather he didn’t take it personally when I tell him I'm not interested in deepening our relationship." She pokes Tony in the chest. "So get reading, smart guy. I've got to get back to my girl. Doctor Banner, have a wonderful day." She tosses him a grin as she walks out.

Bruce slides up and sits at the bar. "So." He takes a sip of coffee and clears his throat. "You and Pepper." It's not really a question, but it is. It's time for it. Bruce is riding last night's high and he thinks he can even stand it if Tony retaliates and asks him about Betty.

"Yeah, she's awesome. I can't believe you've never met her before. I mean, she's been in Malibu a lot lately, a whole lot, but..." And Tony stops talking and turns to Bruce. "Wait. You mean, _me_ and _Pepper_? No! No, god, Bruce, no." He looks shocked. "You think I would do that to you?"

"No," Bruce says immediately, then he sighs. "I... It's my own fault. I should have asked sooner, but I didn't want..." Bruce buries his hands in his hair and leans on the bar. "For every question you ask you have to be ready to have it flipped on you, right? And I couldn't... I couldn't. Talk. About Betty."

Bruce chances a look at Tony and he see the other man floored in a completely different way. "You're still spoiling for Betty Ross." And it's a question, but it isn't really.

"I don't know," Bruce answers honestly, because with Betty nothing could ever be simple. And he's fucked it up, like he knew he would; after yesterday exceeded his expectations this is sooner than he thought. His hands curl into fists and he should probably leave before he breaks something. He truly doesn't need his greener self around to make a mess of everything, he can do that all by himself.

Tony jumps up and sits on the bar, scooting over until he's sitting in front of Bruce. He reaches for Bruce, his fingers circling Bruce's wrists as he pulls Bruce's hands into his lap. "Look at me," he says, and Bruce takes a deep breath and meets Tony's eyes. "Pepper is my very, very good friend, Bruce. She... I couldn't do anything without her. But she's seeing someone else, okay? We are not in any sort of relationship, or... _understanding_ in the bedroom area." He leans forward and presses his lips to Bruce's forehead. "Now, you can hit me back with some info, or not, whatever you choose." Tony sits for a moment, waiting, but when it seems like Bruce isn't going to speak he starts to slide down from the bar.

Bruce moves, his hands on Tony's thighs, holding him still. "I... care about Betty," he confesses finally. "Hulk does too, a lot. But... I don't think I love her. Not like I..." He freezes up and sidesteps. "Anyway, she made her choice pretty clear." Bruce closes his eyes.

"Her choices don't change how you feel," Tony says. His words are a cold observation, but the sound of his voice is a warm comfort.

Bruce shakes his head and looks up at Tony again. "No, they do. When she decided to get married, anything that could have grown between us died. I don't blame her. But the ending to that experiment was pretty definitive." Tony quirks a smile, but sobers quickly and holds Bruce's face in his hands. Bruce just looks up at him and while he may be speaking of endings he can see millions of possibilities and futures opening up before him, and it's all because of Tony.

"You are so amazing." Tony whispers. "I didn't even want to say it, because I know you don't like to talk about her, but I can't believe she let you get away. God, Bruce, you are so brilliant it's almost too much, but you also have the most generous heart I've ever seen. How anyone could think you were anything less than a hero is stupidity of the highest order." His arms tighten for a moment. "You're mine, now, and you're not getting away from me." Tony blinks, seemingly surprised by his own vehemence. He smiles, half sheepish. "Um, unless you want to go somewhere. That's okay, I mean I'm not saying you _can't_ leave- actually I really am, because I like to keep around the people who inspire me, but I didn't mean-"

"Shut up, Tony," Bruce murmurs, and kisses him.

 

 

It's a little awkward the next time Steve calls, because they're in the in the lab doing something they really have no business doing next to a cabinet full of volatile chemicals without having made sure the acetylene torch was turned off when Tony set it aside- which it wasn't.

So Bruce is feeling sheepish, which makes Steve suspicious, and the terrorist attack he called to discuss doesn't get the attention it really should until Steve mentions that the guy who claimed credit calls himself the Mandarin and is associated with the Ten Rings.

Tony's focus is abruptly shifted, and Steve has his undivided attention.

Well, undivided for all of the time that it takes for Steve to relate, and JARVIS to concur, that the guy's a ghost. The Ten Rings claimed credit for the attack and have vanished again as thoroughly as they did the last time. Tony's a bit more annoyed this time, and he's on the phone to Rhodes practically before Steve hangs up, and then he spends a few hours going over information with JARVIS.

With the news they got, Bruce isn't really surprised that that night ends up being a night for nightmares. It's well into the second week after they've stated sharing a room and it's not the first time it's happened.

Though this is certainly the most severe incident. Tony wakes up screaming; Bruce, his arm around Tony, feels the muscles under his fingers tense for battle and it's Hulk who opens his eyes with a roar.

He tears the bed in half, smashes the closet door into a perfect parabola, and pulls Tony against him with a growl as he scans the room for threats.

"Hey," Tony murmurs, soft and breathless, his hands pressed flat against Hulk's chest.

"Tony hurt." Hulk knows the truth of a scream like that. He's made a few of his own.

"I'm okay, big guy. You can put me down."

Hulk growls. They should leave this place. Places where he gets hurt are usually filled with more people who want to keep hurting him. He eyes the door. He remembers the outer room. That is a good room- there is lots of space, and the floor smashes nicely under the bodies of tiny men who think they are gods. He moves toward the door.

"Hulk, please. Can you talk to Bruce? It was a dream. It's not happening right now, okay?" Tony struggles, but eventually rests his head against Hulk's chest with a sigh when it gets him nowhere.

Hulk stills. Banner knows what dream means. Banner says a lot of words that Hulk doesn't understand, like post-traumatic stress, but there is one thing he does understand. "Banner says not dream," Hulk says smugly. "Memory."

Tony laughs bitterly. "Whatever it is, it's not here, okay? It's not going to hurt me anymore. Put me down."

Hulk growls. "Tony stupid." He pushes the door and it falls down. Hulk makes it through the doorframe with minimal smashing and they are in the better room. He pauses as he listens, but the room is silent, light from outside the window washing everything in its pale glow, reflecting back from the soft glow that comes from Tony's heart. There are no men with guns, there is no shouting. Hulk grunts and sits on the floor, cradling Tony in his arms. Tony protests and tries to pull away. "Sleep," he tells Tony. "Hulk will stop memories from hurting."

Tony sighs again- a tired, angry sound- and turns his face against Hulk's chest. He doesn't say anything, but he does fall asleep. Hulk lies still and holds him, alert to the sounds of the night and watching all around the good room. Banner approves, and he sits with Hulk as well, until he too falls asleep in the corner of Hulk's mind.

 

Bruce wakes up as himself. Tony is curled on the couch beside him and he gets the feeling that Hulk just put him there and woke Bruce with the change so that Tony wouldn't be alone. Tony's nightmare has not gone over well with Hulk, and Bruce finds his alter id is determined to protect Tony from the demons of his own mind. While well-meaning, Bruce recognizes the futility of such an attempt, and he suspects Tony is going to have some choice words for him this morning. Bruce isn't sure if it's because he's gotten close enough for Tony to let down more of his walls, or if Tony was mostly directing his darker emotions elsewhere when he was still pursuing Bruce, but he's discovered that Tony has some serious mood swings.

The sun is barely rising; the warm glow dripping in the windows is mostly light pollution from the city below. "JARVIS, coffee?" Bruce asks.

"I began brewing when you placed him on the couch, Doctor Banner," JARVIS replies in a lowered voice. "I believe we have a few moments before he rouses. Thankfully he was rather exhausted last night or else he would have given you more trouble."

Bruce snorts. "I'm sure he'll make up for it this morning." Bruce rubs a hand over his face and goes to get dressed, returning with a blanket from the wrecked bedroom to drape it over Tony. He smiles fondly at Tony's still features; it's a rare thing to see. Even when sleeping Tony usually exudes kinetic energy, but the laboratory binge of the last few days combined with Steve's news and the turmoil of his dreams seems to have finally worn him to the point of cessation of motion.

As JARVIS predicted, it's almost six minutes before Tony stirs. The smell of coffee is spreading through the penthouse and Bruce would bet money that that is what woke his lover. He holds to the intimacy of that word because as Tony opens his eyes Bruce is already bracing for battle. Bruce remembers the look on Tony's face the day he got back from California that first time after Bruce began staying at the Tower; the narrowed and furtive glare of eyes that Tony shoots at him now is extremely familiar, though that last time Bruce wasn't its direct target.

"Good morning," Bruce says.

"You're up early. Have a late night fighting off bogeymen?" Tony rises from the couch and turns away from Bruce, going to the bar.

Bruce breathes deeply before he responds. "He was worried about you."

Tony stiffens. "He can't protect me from things that have already happened. I hope you explained that to him." His voice is sharp enough to flay skin from bone. He takes a huge swallow of coffee and deigns to shoot Bruce another glare. "And I don't need him to protect me anyway."

Bruce feels something inside of him rumble in disquiet. _Tony is falling through the air,_ not _flying, and Hulk snatches him close, not wanting to let him smash against the ground._ Bruce sighs. _There's nothing you can do_ , he tells Hulk. _He's just in a mood. He'll have to work it off on his own._ Hulk is displeased. He falls silent, but he is watching, keeping his eyes on Tony.

Bruce lost some time talking to himself so when he looks up again Tony is standing in front of him looking at him. Tony's expression is strange- both conciliatory and pugnacious simultaneously. Bruce just looks back at him, wondering how much Tony can read on his face. He realized last night something he had suspected for a while, but he's not sure if it's something he can share with Tony. The scientist in him thinks it's fascinating, but Tony is the variable in the experiment. He might not find it so interesting.

“Should I charge admission, you plan to sit there and stare at me all day?” The harshness in Tony’s voice makes Bruce remember he’s not the only one who doesn’t play well with others. _Iron Man, yes; Tony Stark, no._ “Did you hear me? I don't need protection." He stabs Bruce's chest with his finger. They're standing face to face; Bruce knows enough to know Tony's anger is a facade he's built against his vulnerability; Bruce just has to outlast it. "Especially not by someone I have to bill for a new door every time he walks in.”

Bruce has to bite back the defensive reply on the edge of his tongue. He knows Tony doesn’t really care about the damage, but a part of him is hurt by the accusation.

Tony steps closer, pushing harder. "I'm not surprised she left," he hisses. "I'm sure Mrs Samson enjoys it when her husband doesn't tear the bed in half in the middle of the night." Bruce freezes, and almost immediately Tony looks like he wants to take it back, but he won't let himself back down and he clenches his jaw and glares at Bruce.

And suddenly Bruce doesn't think he can do this today. Tony is determined to succeed at everything he does, and a Tony so determined to get under his skin is going to get what he wants. Bruce takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Remember you leave for your appointment with Pepper at 11:30. You know where I am if you want to talk.” Bruce stands and walks out of the room. He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath. Hulk wants to go back but Bruce keeps walking.

He goes down to his private laboratory on his floor. It's actually been a few days since he's been there and he detours to the water garden/dojo that Tony designed for him, and works through a few routines he designed. It's a bit of t'ai chi ch'uan, a dash of aikido- finding mental balance and directing the flow of energy. He feels calmer, more comfortable in his decision when he's done. He ends up in the lab and finalizes the data on his experiment.

Tony finds him there. It’s not even midmorning, which is actually probably a record. Tony stands in the doorway of Bruce’s lab and says, “I’m sorry.” Bruce puts down the Starkpad he's working with and looks up. Tony walks in nonchalantly, like he didn't just say something. “Whatcha working on?”

“Just writing up some final observations on this particular experiment.”

And it’s absolutely uncanny how Tony intuits that the experiment in question was about him, and he takes it entirely the wrong way. His affected nonchalance deflates like a balloon and his fingers are pressed against the tabletop like they want to claw deep gouges in it, or repulsor blast it into tiny pieces. “So you finished your experiment,” Tony says flatly. “I assume you got the results you were expecting.”

Bruce looks up at him. “Yes and no. And I don’t think I’ll ever really be done. The variables keep changing. It will require constant supervision.”

Tony looks confused now. “Tell me about it,” he says, but the words are a question. _Is it okay? Are we okay?_

Bruce looks at him and decides that it’s too good not to share. And besides, Tony was right.

"Do you remember back when you said that Betty’s choices didn’t change my feelings?” Tony nods darkly and Bruce continues, “And I said you were wrong, but you were right. You were so right, and I realized that last night.” Tony looks lost and slightly murderous, and Bruce skips right to the salient point.

“I love you, Tony Stark. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wasn’t sure how you would respond, but it doesn’t matter. Whatever you choose it doesn’t matter because I will still love you.”

Tony is gripping the tabletop, looking dazed. “You realized this today?” he says thickly. “The day I have been nothing but a complete shithead to you?”

Bruce smiles. “Yes,” he says simply.

“How did, last night... Bruce fucking Banner if you’re in love with me because you have a secret fantasy about saving me from myself, I swear to god...”

Bruce shakes his head. “No. Last night showed me how deeply Hulk cares about you. He was worried sick about you, Tony. And that helped me see that what I feel for you isn’t just attraction to your incredible intelligence and lust for your amazing body and a desire to experience your generosity. It’s... If every morning you had was like this morning, I would rather be here with you than anywhere else in the world.”

Tony’s eyes are wide. “Goddammit." He takes a deep breath. "Bruce, you gave me full disclosure to all your dark sides before this got too deep, but I kind of blindsided you with mine. I mean, I'm famous and shit so you've heard all the dirt, but... You've put up with me when I'm at my absolute worst, and you still want to be here tomorrow. I... not a lot of people have wanted that." Bruce steps around the table and leans into Tony, forehead pressed to his temple. He doesn't speak. Tony takes another deep breath. "It's pretty much down to you and Pepper. Even Happy would rather babysit Pepper than drive me around. And Pepper's head over heels for her little Russian, so-"

Bruce jerks sharply. "Natasha? Pepper's seeing Natasha?" He takes his own steadying breath and leans back into Tony. "I can't believe you were too tame for her."

Tony laughs. The sound is a release and he turns to Bruce. His lips seek out Bruce's, but his kiss is quick, more reassurance than seduction. "Yeah, well, I guess I was looking for something else, too." He leans into Bruce and inhales deeply, closing his eyes and seeming to rest for a moment against Bruce. Bruce is uncertain, but he raises his arm and wraps it around Tony, pulling him closer. Tony opens his eyes and grins at Bruce. He's about to say something, when JARVIS speaks.

"Sir, I do hate to interrupt, but I feel I should inform you that your scheduled departure for Ms Pott's emergency meeting at the Malibu office is in thirty minutes." Tony growls mutinously and kisses Bruce again. "Also, there appears to be an incident occurring in England."

That piques Tony's interest, and Bruce's as well. "Incident? Be more specific JARVIS."

I'm getting conflicting reports," JARVIS says. "But it appears to be some sort of alien invasion."

Tony tenses. "Aliens? Visual."

JARVIS brings up a newsfeed on the lab display, and it looks like some sort of portal is opening over Greenwich in downtown London. There is an enormous spaceship crashing into the riverbank. "It has been confirmed that Thor is onsite," JARVIS says, and sure enough the next image he shows is Thor, battling a tall white-haired figure wearing dark armor.

"JARVIS, ready the Mark IX."

"Indeed, sir."

Tony turns as if to run for the elevator, and his platform and armor, but his fingers interlace with Bruce's and he looks at Bruce searchingly.

Bruce nods and says, "Yes." He's already walking toward the elevator, pulling Tony with him.

"JARVIS, VII and IX, thanks." Tony pushes Bruce against the wall of the elevator and kisses him. It's deep and filthy and promising, and makes Bruce want to forget about aliens invading London. "You know I have a jet, too," Tony pulls away and says. "You don't have to..."

Bruce kisses him again. "It's faster, to take the suit."

And by the time the elevator reaches the penthouse floor they're kissing again, only breaking apart for Tony to reach for the bracelets and snap them around Bruce's wrists.

 

Flying in the armor is different this time. There is none of the fear of Ross' presence, only the exhilaration of promised battle. Hulk is a rising rumble in his mind, but amazingly their talks seem to have helped to a point and he seems to grasp the concept of _not yet_. He only bandies around in Bruce's thoughts, ready but not even pushing to be on the outside.

But by the time they arrive, in the hour and a half it took by Iron Man suit, everything is mostly over. Thor and most of the aliens are gone. The portals between worlds are closed. Tony helps look for and round up a few alien specimens still running loose, and Bruce manages to locate Doctors Selvig and Foster.

He met Erik Selvig once, at Culver, though it's been awhile. Jane Foster seems pleased and impressed to meet him and not the least bit interested in the fact that he might turn green at any moment. She seems so oblivious to it that Bruce wonders if she even knows; Selvig takes her aside at one point and Bruce would put money on him spelling it out for her right then, because when she comes back what she says is, "You're the guy who laid out Loki like a pancake" - and _that's_ the thing that made the most impression on her, not the fact that he could do it again right now. Bruce can see Selvig raising his eyes to heaven in a plea, and Bruce smiles, his first wholly genuine smile since arriving.

"Yeah, that was me," he says. "I don't suppose any of this mess was his fault?"

Foster frowns, like she wouldn't put it past him, but says, "No. He's dead."

Bruce blinks in surprise, but no one here is shedding any tears, so instead of asking about that he moves on to what is obviously on Jane's mind, as she also raises her eyes to the sky, though for a different reason than Selvig. "And Thor? He defeated the, Dark Elves you call them?"

Foster nods. "The universe wasn't consumed in darkness, so that seems the most likely theory." She takes a deep breath and turns to Bruce, the ghost of a smile on her face. "We, um, made something of a mess in Asgard, technically committed treason, so he probably has a bit of explaining to do to his father." Her smile falls slightly. "It may be a while before he gets back."

Bruce nods and offers, on Tony's behalf, "If you need anything..."

She looks around, as if uncertain as to where she is and how to get home. "No," she says. "I'll be fine. It's been a long day though. I think I need to crash."

Selvig clears his throat. "Darcy and Ian are at your flat," he says, the tone of the statement leaving little to the imagination as to what the pair of them are up to.

"Oh," Foster says, obviously not keen to interrupt.

"Come with me," Bruce urges. "I'm sure Tony would like to hear all the details firsthand."

Part of Jane clearly wants to say yes, but she hesitates. A suited man, who might as well have SHIELD written on his forehead appears as if by magic at Jane's elbow. "Doctor Foster? If you would come this way, SHIELD would like to debrief you about this incident."

Jane's hesitation dissolves into a combination of pugnacity and exhaustion too long held in check. "Okay," she gestures between the SHIELD guy and Bruce. "Whoever offers me a bed first wins. And Erik, too," she amends, reaching for Selvig and snagging the arm of his jacket.

The SHIELD agent looks bewildered. Bruce says, "JARVIS has a suite booked at the Baglioni."

"Sold." Jane turns her back on the SHIELD agent resolutely. "Lead on, Doctor Banner."

 

Once they're at the hotel, Tony is not long in showing up. The Iron Man suit lands on the balcony; stepping out of it, Tony kisses Bruce. "JARVIS said you brought some company?" There is a twinkle in his eye that comes from testing out his tech and seeing it do what he made it to do. Bruce loves that twinkle.

"Doctors Foster and Selvig are occupying the rooms across the hall," he says. "Doctor Foster has been to Asgard." Tony's expression flares with avarice.

"Oooh, sorry Bruce you are officially no longer the most interesting person in this hotel. Where is she?"

Bruce laughs. "Sleeping." He closes his eyes and leans into Tony, loving the smell of sweat and smoke. "And she likes blondes."

Tony chuckles softly, relaxing against Bruce. "Hey, I can accommodate. You think I'd make a good blonde?"

Bruce snorts and pulls Tony after him into the bedroom. Pushing him up against the door, he gets down on his knees and blows him. He hopes Tony's enthusiasm doesn't rouse the suite's other occupants, but he's gotten over Tony's complete lack of inhibition by now.

 

By the time Tony has returned the favor and they've showered and eaten, Jane has risen from her bed and meets them in the suite's living room for coffee. She still looks tired, but after her short rest her mind is too wired to sleep. Words come spilling out of her, Tony lapping them up like every one is made of gold. Bruce comments occasionally but mostly he is amused by Tony's enthusiasm. Tony has snagged a couple of examples of alien tech from the battlefield that is the city, and he asks Jane if she is familiar with any of them. They are still going at it well into the night.

When Pepper calls Bruce, with some pointed words because Tony isn't answering his own phone, she informs Tony that the meeting he missed was rescheduled for tomorrow on account of alien invasion. Tony is abashed enough by her words, and perhaps more so by Bruce's discomfort at mediating the interchange, to admit that he should probably go to Malibu. He offers Foster and Selvig funding, tech, flunkies, and lab space, and kisses Bruce before he takes to the air and flies into the night.

The "meeting" ends up being more of a crisis intervention, and Tony stays in Malibu.

 

Bruce spends the next few days playing Jane's heavy. Jane has just enough clout with SHIELD to not be threatened into submission when she tries to gather her own astronomical data from the Greenwich incident, but not enough to compel any sort of cooperation from them. Bruce finds he rather enjoys helping her with that. Jane turned down most of the things Tony offered to get for her, but she doesn't mind Bruce's help and wielding Tony's name allows him to open almost any door Jane wants to look behind; being himself opens the ones that are left. He has enough control to enjoy it. Like that first day with Natasha in India, Hulk finds his own humor in keeping on edge those who think they can get around him with soft words.

 

This is the first time since they started as a couple that he and Tony have spent more than forty-eight hours apart from each other. Bruce rather suspected Tony would be the one to call him first, but it's well into the second day and there's been no call, no contact.

"I knew it would be you," Tony says smugly when he answers Bruce's call. Bruce just glowers at him and Tony grins.

"I thought for sure you would call me first," Bruce admits.

Tony grins at him. "I wanted to," he admits in his own turn. "But I was taking bets with myself. Plus, I was cheating. JARVIS is keeping an eye on you, so I knew you were fine." He says this warmly, as if JARVIS is the highest available authority in determining someone's status of "fine"ness, but he trails off, as if remembering or realizing that not everyone is as comfortable with JARVIS as he is.

Bruce glances to the side, where the Mark VII suit stands in the corner, patiently ready. The arc reactor is glowing softly, rhythmically, as if JARVIS inside is running through diagnostics while the suit is not in use. The suit itself is slightly unnerving because Bruce keeps expecting it to pop the faceplate to reveal Tony, but JARVIS is like having a piece of Tony here with him always. "Yes," he says. "JARVIS is making sure I'm fine." He looks back into Tony's eyes and smiles.

Tony smiles back, then pauses for a moment, his eyes searching Bruce through the videoscreen. "I miss you." He looks down and away.

They haven't had a lot of time to process everything they've confessed to each other, but Bruce finds that it's easier than he thought it would be to throw himself out there and meet Tony in the middle. "When you're gone, you're the only thing I can think about."

Tony grins, a quick and pleased expression. "Well, I guess I can settle for being the focus of your amazing brain when I can't have the rest of you." His gaze grows calculating and his voice drops, low and husky. "So, Bruce, how do you feel about videophone sex?"

 

 

They talk almost every day after that, but it's usually short, light conversations; they're both too busy, and too raw, for much else. Tony is increasingly frustrated with the situation in California. "I gave the company to Pepper for a reason," he grouses. "I didn't want to have to deal with this."

Bruce soothes him with patient words, though he's privately worried. It must be worse than Tony is saying, because he _is_ staying and seeing it through, rather than just hopping in the suit and jetting out of there. He can tell Tony is... unsettled. He won't discuss anything specific with Bruce, just cites issues with the company as the source of his belligerence. It's also usually the middle of the night, Malibu time, when Tony calls. Bruce tries not to worry, but he does call Rhodey. Rhodes is already keeping an eye on Tony, to Bruce's pleased surprise. They have one, brief conversation but there is a certain reinvigorating of purpose, on both sides Bruce thinks, in realizing that, despite how difficult and self-destructive Tony can be, there is someone else out there who loves Tony and cares about him just as much.

 

Jane is as distracted as Bruce is most of the time. They've collated the data Jane needed, cataloged and transferred to a secure SI facility north of London the alien artifacts they collected, and managed to take a look at what SHIELD found in the wrecked flotsam of Nine Realms. But, with all that, they haven't _done_ much with it. Bruce isn't an astrophysicist, so he knows he's mostly here in a supportive capacity, but Jane is... waiting for something.

"Sometimes I wonder if it's even good for him to come back," she confesses over beers one night. "I mean, he's a prince. Right? He doesn't need to be fooling around with someone who has her own career."

Darcy makes a soft sound of comfort. She has an amazing ability to sense people's moods, and- in a city that will deliver any kind of food you can imagine directly to your doorstep, at any conceivable time of the day or night- she has sent Ian away to the other side of London to fetch them dinner. It should take him hours, and it prevents her from being distracted by him and unable to give her full attention to comforting her friend. Darcy leans toward Jane, expression sympathetic. "You love him, right? And he feels the same. Sometimes that's more important than doing what you're supposed to."

"Yes, but who compromises?" Selvig muses aloud. "It is a lot of space, to find a middle ground."

Darcy hmms and gives him a fresh beer. "Drink another one Erik, you're still on melancholy. I thought you were a happy drunk. When does the singing start?"

Bruce shakes his head with a smile. "I believe he would do anything to see you again," he tells Jane.

Darcy raises her beer to him in toast. "Bravo! That deserves opening another case. I think we've got one more of the good stuff."

They're all sitting around Jane's kitchen. Darcy stands and goes into the hall to get the beer. There is a clink and the sound of rolling glass as she drops her bottle. "Oh my God."

Everyone looks up, at Darcy standing in the doorway, her back to them. She is looking at the television, flickering forgotten in the other room. "Oh my God," Darcy says again, and Bruce starts to feel dread building in him. "You guys, oh my God... Oh, Bruce, you need to see this." She moves to the television, stumbling drunkenly over the ottoman, and hits the volume.

Bruce stands and moves to where he can see the screen. He feels like he is in a dream, and it takes a moment before what he is seeing makes sense to him. A part of him already knows, and Hulk is yowling inside of him, the rage beating restlessly against his veins. And really there is no part of him that wants to contain it when he reads the words and sees the images: Tony Stark Believed Dead, Terrorist Kills Iron Man, the headlines are scrolling; Tony's Malibu house is falling, in slow motion, in replay, falling and falling again from the cliff where it perched.

But it can't be true. Bruce seizes upon that and uses it to keep Hulk shuttered down. It can't be true, and you cannot work with impossible variables, so therefore... But it's not working, and Hulk is screaming his way to the surface.

Bruce breathes in slowly and deeply. His eyes are closed but he can feel the greenness of his rage twisting through his body. Jane's hand is on his arm, but it's as if she knows there's nothing she can do and she lets it fall when he shakes her off with a growl.

He can hear people talking but it doesn't register until Darcy leans in close to him and says clearly, "Bruce, I've got JARVIS." She holds out her phone, holding it up in front of him while his hands tear into the fabric of the couch he is standing behind.

"JARVIS," Bruce says, clinging to the word.

"Doctor Banner," JARVIS' clear voice comes from the phone's speakers. "I am in route. Please attempt to remain calm until I arrive, as I shall be hard pressed to transport your larger form."

Bruce snorts, because _Hulk doesn't need_ transport _, Hulk will find Tony, Tony will_ not _be dead, Hulk will smash whoever says otherwise._

"Doctor Banner, I should relay also that Mister Stark preprogrammed a course for Tennessee before the server at the Malibu residence went offline."

Bruce blinks. Tennessee? What on earth is in Tennessee? This is something he can latch his mind on to and he manages to pull out of his spiral. He blinks again, and looks up. Darcy has an encouraging smile; Jane looks drunk but determined. Ian has returned, but he stands off to the side, clutching the boxes he brought. Selvig is in the doorway to the kitchen, watching all of them warily, and perhaps a bit wearily.

There is a thud outside, and Bruce knows that JARVIS has arrived. "Thank you," he says.

Jane nods fiercely. "You've helped me so much."

Darcy nods too. She motions Ian away from the door. "Go," she tells Bruce, but it's a benediction rather than an eviction, and he goes, hope rising in him, because Tennessee is a thorn in his mind now, and Hulk can only sit and stare at it, anger roiling but confusion ascendant.

Bruce closes the Mark VII helmet around his head almost eagerly, and he whispers softly, "Tony," not expecting a reply.

But even as JARVIS is rising them through the air, he must trigger some sort of message system, because a voice says, "Retinal scan confirmed, Stark Private Server."

"Bruce," Tony says, and his voice is ragged and trembling with something like exhaustion, or hypothermia. "I'm sorry, about this. I mean, you know there was some trouble going on with the company, and I've been helping Pepper deal with it, but I never really told you any details, so this is probably going to be a bit of a surprise, with the house and all, cause that's gonna be on TV, and I'm sorry, and..." He breathes deeply and Bruce breathes with him. "I hope you get this. I... Anyway, I've got a bad guy to catch, so I'll see you around, yeah?" He clears his throat. "Pepper. I'm sorry, you were right, okay? And arguing about that put you in danger, and I'm so sorry, that's my bad. Take care of yourself, and I'll get this Killian guy sorted, easy peasy."

Bruce closes his eyes. Something is lodged in his throat, and he thinks it might be Hulk, the hugeness of Hulk's joy, because _Hulk said Tony_ not _dead, not true_ , even though Bruce had agreed with him the entire time.

_Banner said he didn't believe, but Banner lies. Banner stupid. Tony not leaving._

Bruce smiles. It's a quick, bitter thing, but it stays and it spreads over his face. "You're right," he says, barely a whisper, "I thought he was dead, dear god, I..." He swallows. "But you were right." He can feel Hulk's satisfaction, because they are going to _smash_ _everyone_ who had a hand in this.

 

When he flies over New York, JARVIS tells him there's someone waiting for him at Avengers Tower, so he detours.

Natasha watches the suit land, her face impassive. Bruce removes the helmet and he can see her eyes are red and there are lines on her face. "Tony's not dead," he says. "I'm pretty sure Pepper's okay, too."

Something so minute it's hard to quantify relaxes in her expression and she nods.

"I'm going to Tennessee, to see if I can pick up Tony's trail," he says. "He mentioned someone named Killian."

"There have been a series of explosions," Natasha says. "Not sure if it made international headlines, but the last one was in LA. The Mandarin has been claiming responsibility for all of them." She narrows her eyes. "Killian is the head of AIM. They've been really squirrelly about a project they're supposed to be working on with SI. I wouldn't be surprised if he was mixed up in this."

She looks out over the skyline. "I'll follow you in the Quinjet."

Bruce nods and raises his helmet.

"Stop." A cadre of SHIELD agents runs out onto the platform. "I am Agent Sitwell. Doctor Banner, you are requested to surrender yourself and the technology you possess to SHIELD."

Bruce wants to laugh, but Hulk is getting impatient and so he only settles the helmet on his head. Natasha looks unimpressed with the five men standing in front of her. Bruce almost wishes he felt worse about leaving them to her tender mercies, but he doesn't. He just falls backward off the Tower, the stabilizers catching and propelling him into the air and toward Tony.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack listing: "Jet Airliner" was written by Paul Pena and performed by the Steve Miller Band.


	2. And So Castles Made of Sand Fall into the Sea, Eventually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony deals with the Mandarin and the collapse of SHIELD.

 

 **Location:** Universe MTYTYA, Designation: Prime(Alpha)  
_Malibu_  
_(arriving from London)_  
_10 months pre-anomaly_

Tony arrives in Malibu for the company meeting he managed to avoid yesterday because of alien invasion. He lands in his old workshop and is immediately greeted by a solemn Natasha; he gets the feeling from her expression that he's not actually going to have time for that shower he was hoping for. Tony raises his faceplate and Natasha says, "This is all your fault, you know."

"What the hell?" Tony grouses as he moves to the platform and JARVIS assists him in removing the suit. "The company is Pepper's. If she wants to do business with this Killian then not get all the way into bed with him, it's her fault if he gets pissed about it." Which is hitting below the belt, really, but it's okay because Natasha hits back harder than anyone he knows.

"Oh that's her fault," Natasha purrs, "But you're the one who left the guy standing on a roof in Switzerland, so you're the one he wants to screw over."

Tony frowns in thought, though half of that is also annoyance that he may have damaged the left gauntlet's release because it's not popping open like it should. "Switzerland? Doesn't ring a bell."

Natasha smiles.

Tony narrows his eyes at her and steps back. "I should have brought Bruce," he murmurs, half to himself.

Natasha raises an eyebrow in a complete lack of giving any kind of shit, and rises gracefully from her seat. "He wouldn't have saved you," she says, her voice even with confidence.

Natasha marches him into a car and down to the office. On the way, she gives him the lowdown. Some of it Tony already knows, but he's kind of a captive audience and he would never admit that hearing everything in order is helpful.

Pepper had authorized a long-term, joint research project between SI and a company called Advanced Idea Mechanics concerning the development of a new, genetically superior strain of wheat. Pepper doesn't like Killian, the head of the company, because of some history that Natasha doesn't go into but which makes her lip curl in a way that makes Tony think murder is imminent. Killian has been pressuring Pepper to have SI fund his slightly more militaristic projects as well, which Pepper flatly refuses to do; it's Tony's policy but one which Pepper, now, supports. Natasha's done some research on the guy, and what she found was part of the reason Pepper had called Tony for the emergency meeting.

Pepper looks up at them as they walk into her office, and Tony's struck by the fact that she actually looks worried. Natasha shuts the door behind them.

"What is it, Pep?" Tony says as he crosses to her.

Pepper has a file folder opened and turns it toward him. "Do you recognize any of these people?"

He frowns. "That's Maya Hansen," he points to the middle photograph. The arrogant looking man next to her he taps with a finger. "Drawing a blank, but sort of familiar? And this guy," he moves on to the third photo, a guy so perfectly non-descript with his short, dark hair and hipster glasses, "I know his face. He was on the helicarrier. He must be SHIELD?"

Pepper nods, her mouth pinched in unhappiness. "Do you know why he might be connected with Aldrich Killian?" She taps the picture of the arrogant man when she says the name.

"No. Is he?"

"I'm not sure. The project AIM is supposed to be working on has somehow gotten their files crossed with the files on some of the consulting projects SI has done for Director Fury. The only link to both is this man. His name is Maybourne, or at least that's the name he gave us when he worked here." She frowns more heavily. "I haven't been able to contact anyone at SHIELD to confirm his status with them or his real name." Her eyes flick up to Natasha, softening.

"I don't recognize him personally," Natasha puts in. "I was about to leave to inquire more directly at the Triskelion." Her eyes settle on Tony for a moment, as if weighing, but she moves her attention on to Pepper. "This is the hardcopy of the file I found on Killian." She looks at Tony again. "You met him. In Switzerland, as I mentioned before."

Pepper looks at him. Tony shakes his head. "Like I said, I don't remember him. I don't remember a lot about... Bern is in Switzerland, right? New Year's? In any case, there was a lot of alcohol at that party. _Her_ ," he taps the photo of Hansen, "I remember. Botanist, right?"

"She's AIM's lead on our disease resistant crop project," Pepper says. "In charge of DNA coding, so, yes, sort of." She smiles her _I know you're paying more attention than you're letting on_ smile, and adds, "I'm glad she could make that night memorable for you."

"Hey," Tony protests, but not too hard.

There's a flurry of activity outside the office for a moment before a harried looking intern slips inside. "Sorry to bother you, Ms Potts, but there's been another Mandarin broadcast. A bombing, in Kuwait."

 

So, the Mandarin is a thing again. _Still_. And Tony isn't sure what to do with it. He retreats to his workshop and has JARVIS download his specs, even though the Malibu workshop has none of his most recent toys and he gets started rebuilding the Mark IX base exoframe from scratch.

He likes to work while he thinks, or _instead_ of thinking about things he can't fix, because _this_ is something he _can_ fix. And he has his hands elbow deep in wiring as he glances at the display JARVIS shows him of the hotel in London. It's tomorrow morning there, barely; Bruce is still asleep.

 

When he finds out that Tony's in town, Happy calls and gripes about Killian's shady associates. Tony has lunch with Rhodey, and it is most certainly not an attempt to see what the Air Force knows about the Mandarin. Between Happy and Rhodey it almost feels like old times, like the past eight months never happened.

Bruce calls him, and Tony feels something warm and choking filling his chest. He's pretty sure he knows what it is, and he's still deciding if he likes it or not. It's... uncomfortable. But it's undeniable. And it's _safe_ in a way that comforts him. He hasn't been to Malibu in so long he'd forgotten how many memories were here of things he's not sure he wants to remember. But Bruce isn't part of that past and that is such a _good_ feeling.

 

Pepper has another meeting the next day, not that anything's been resolved. Killian himself is suddenly MIA now that SI wants to ask him about how his company gained access to private SHIELD files.

With the Mandarin hanging around, sleep isn't something Tony feels like partaking in. He's spending most of his time in his workshop. He's working on Mark X, and he's already got some ideas for XI. The days start to blur.

 

If he doesn't want to think about it, Tony certainly doesn't want to talk about it. When he talks to Bruce he'd much rather talk about Foster's progress, or Bruce's projects. Or anything involving Bruce, really, especially if it involves getting him to say things like,

"Move your leg, I can't see. Mmm, Tony. You're so perfect. Open yourself for me."

"Oh god," Tony moans. His head falls back and he's gasping for breath, his heartbeat hammering under his skin, sweat beading over his chest as one hand works his cock almost desperately while he slips the fingers of the other inside of himself.

"I want to be inside of you, Tony." Bruce is breathing heavily as well, his voice a gruff purr in Tony's earpiece. "Can you feel me?"

Tony cries out, his fingers closing tighter around his cock, and it's the push he needs to send him over the edge, shuddering. "God, Bruce," he moans, fingers working his cock for every drop as the white fluid spill over his fingers. "You make me so hot. No one's ever made me as hot as you do. I wish I was there. I want to rub your balls on my face." He hears Bruce's breath catch, a thin, high whine escaping him. "I'd take them in my mouth, because you taste so good and I'd work your cock so tight in my fingers. Mmm, tighter, my thumb right under the head."

" _Fuck_ , Tony," Bruce chokes out, and he's breathing high and quick, and he moans again in completion. Tony still had his eyes closed, but he opens them to feast his eyes on the screen and Bruce is wrecked. Tony loves him like that, loves that he's like that because of _Tony_ , and Tony _always_ fucking _knew_ the big guy could blow off steam without hurting anyone.

But what Tony says is, "Mmm, do you think the hotel would mind if I bought that suite? I'd just keep it, for you. We can give it a new coat of paint every time we stop by."

And maybe he's doing some post-coital rambling, because Bruce grins and says, "Shut up, Tony." He leans in close to the screen, his eyes seeking Tony's and holding them. "I love you."

Tony swallows and his eyes dart away before he can consciously decide how to respond.

"Goodnight, Tony," Bruce says. He sounds okay, amused and not wounded by Tony's failure, and Tony's eyes flit back to him.

"Good morning," Tony says back, cocky grin in place, and Bruce just smiles as he disconnects.

 

So this long distance relationship thing is actually kind of working and that's really new, both with the long distance and the relationship parts. The distance means he doesn't have to share his bad moods if he doesn't want to, and so there's less of an urge to... push, just to see if he can get a reaction. Pepper takes the brunt of that- and Tony feels bad about it, he does, but he can't _stop_ pushing, can't stop testing the boundaries of what he can get away with.

Bruce is... he's so patient, sometimes it's hard to remember why. He doesn't even seem to mind that Tony won't discuss the specifics of the SI situation with him, or even that he can't seem to return Bruce's words.

Tony would tell Bruce to come out to California to be with him, but Bruce is so obviously enjoying himself in London, and asking him to come would mean that Tony was admitting that cleaning this up was going to be a project of longer than the few days he keeps promising himself it'll take.

Tony's pretty sure Bruce knows more than Tony's saying, but Bruce humors him; he doesn't force Tony to talk about it. Strangely, Tony thinks it's Bruce and Bruce's faith in him that forces him to see this through to completion, not just give it up as a bad job and jet back to London, letting SHIELD handle extracting AIM from their supposedly covert files.

They're working on day twelve, and, coincidentally, Tony's starting in on Mark XII as well, putting his sleepless nights to some use, because there's only so often he can call Bruce before he's certain Bruce would give it up and fly out.

Natasha sent an Agent Hammond, who specializes in corporate espionage, to look into everything, but he can't determine the source of problem. Tony could have told them that; JARVIS already looked at it and couldn't find anything, and anything JARVIS can't find can't _be_ found.

The Mandarin's next explosion hits kind of close to home. And Tony thinks that, looking at the footage of the fire and destruction from just up in Hollywood on the television screen in Pepper's office, and that's even before Pepper gets the phone call, her face draining of color.

Tony's at the hospital, looking at Happy's bruised face, and the Mandarin is like a burr in his mind that he can't get out. Tony will admit, when his heart is involved he doesn't do his best thinking- he says things, the wounds in his heart bleeding over into speech, and he wishes Bruce was there, to be the strong, quiet presence... and to be the maelstrom that makes visible the storm in Tony's mind.

He's in his lab trying to find some sort of pattern behind these attacks, and some sort of way that this crazy shit is _doing_ this without actually planting bombs, when Maya Hansen of all people shows up at his door crying about her boss working for the Mandarin, and she knows where they can find him, but they _have to leave now_. Which isn't quite going to happen, because Pepper walks in complaining about how she found out from _Natasha_ , who's on the other side of the _country_ , that Tony issued an ultimatum to a _terrorist_ , and then Maya's eyes get huge. She's looking from the television screen to behind him, out the window over the water. Tony doesn't even have to hear the words because he can see the terror in her eyes- and as he turns the world falls out from under them.

 

Tony wakes up in Tennessee. He barely remembers calling the suit, casting Mark XI over Pepper, saving Pepper and Maya from the house as it crumbles around them, and the icy grip of the water as concrete and rebar wrap around him and pull him down into its depths. But he remembers JARVIS pulled him free- _JARVIS, you amazing thing you, who created such an amazing thing? Oh, right, it was me_ \- and now JARVIS has brought him to Tennessee- _JARVIS, what crazy fuck wrote your programming??_

In the snow and the cold, he calls Bruce. He can't think of anything else to reach out to except for the Mark VII in London, patiently waiting for Bruce to call upon it- _and he remembers the first time Bruce called, and Bruce's soft smile as he glanced to the side, to where the suit's glowing eyes would creep most people out, even Pepper had found it unnerving. "Yeah, JARVIS is making sure I'm fine."_ And as he leaves the message he wonders where Bruce is at this moment. Tony doesn't expect he's going to see Bruce again anytime soon, because he has to finish this before anything else, and that burns his gut more deeply than he thought it would.

He starts the trek from his snowy forest crash site toward the bustling metropolis of Rose Hill, dragging the suit behind him, before he finds the convenient barn. It's supposed to be a joke- because he can't remember the last time he was in a place that so clearly defined the word "hick"- but it wears thin. Especially when he meets Harley.

There's a lot of himself in the kid, and Tony has a hard time pulling himself away from that. But there _is_ a lot of himself in the kid, and while Harley has Tony's same lack of tact, he's also driven to solve problems. Harley kickstarts him, but it's the realization that Rhodey is in danger that truly spurs him into action. AIM has their fingers in all of the pies apparently, including the War Machine rebrand. And exploding people. There is nothing about this that is good.

There aren't many things in his life that Tony truly values. He's lost enough to know that things can always be replaced, rebuilt, but people... people just leave you, and there is no goodbye. He's tired of it, and he's not going to fucking let it happen again.

 

He enters the compound in Miami, still without having stopped to sleep, and he wonders if that is part of the reason the truth about the Mandarin takes so long to sink in. The face of the evil that has been a thorn in his side is just that: a face, nothing behind the mask. He vaguely remembers one of the Mandarin's broadcasts talking about things being hollow and empty, and that's what this is- it's a misdirect, like the rumors of the weapons cached in Pakistan, like the supposed terrorist attacks that were just soldiers who couldn't stop from exploding, like the empty form of his suit that he can call to him even from several states away. His mind is turning slower, until he gets a short bit of enforced rest courtesy of a fist to the face.

 

Maya Hansen wants him to help her fix Killian's Extremis problem, but apparently she didn't get the memo about how he doesn't play well with people who take his stuff.

Killian shows up to gloat. And the fucker has _Pepper_. He's put his imperfect exploding goo near _Pepper_ , and Tony feels the cold fury building in him. He better kill this guy quick, or else Natasha's gonna get dibs.

Of course, his suit doesn't get there in time to help with that, and so he loses Killian, for the moment, but gains Rhodey. And a speedboat.

And he and Rhodey have a new objective: save the President.

Meanwhile, JARVIS is excavating the Mark IX and X from the ruins of the Malibu mansion. Hopefully they'll be in time.

 

The Roxxon Norco platform is crawling with Extremis soldiers, but he and Rhodey manage to infiltrate far enough that they've already split toward their separate objectives by the time they get discovered; Rhodey to save the President, and Tony to find Pepper.

It's his fault Pepper's here, that she's in danger, and he hates it because even more than the fact that she always hated him placing _himself_ in danger, he's brought that home to the company- to _her_ , and that's something Natasha has never done. Her past never touches Pepper, and her work is clandestine enough that she can keep Natasha and Natalie completely separate, and Tony thinks that's part of the reason he and Pepper could never work. He can't compartmentalize, and he is unable to refrain from the spotlight. He thinks of Bruce, the ultimate compartmentalist, and he can't help but wish Bruce was here.

He's climbing up the tower of the oil rig, and something beneath him explodes. Tony grips the railing above him. He's almost there, and he swings down into the structure of the oil tower. Pepper is close. Rhodey is taking care of the president. Mark XI is coming from Tennessee, still a good half an hour out; IX and X are en route from Malibu and while he doesn't have an ETA it can't be shorter. His fingers itch. "Status," he murmurs into his earpiece.

There's a worrisome interlude of silence before Rhodey says, "Tony, I've got the president clear." There's some background noise, then, "Do you need any help?"

"No," Tony murmurs back, working his way through the halls. The Extremis soldiers are running the other direction, toward the ruckus that Rhodey caused. Which is good because he can see Pepper. "I've got her," and there is triumph in his voice. "Pepper," he says, his fingers dancing over the contraption that encloses her. She moans, the fire of Extremis flickering under her skin. But he can't lose Pepper and he chants under his breath, "I've got you, we're going to fix this, it's going to work."

"Inbound to your position," a voice says.

It takes Tony a moment, because that wasn't a voice he was expecting. "Natasha," he identifies. "I've got Pepper on the second floor, northwest corner."

If Natasha makes a response, Tony doesn't have time to hear it. He didn't hear the approach, but someone grabs him up from where he's crouched over Pepper and throws him bodily against the wall. It hurts, and it takes his still exhausted mind a moment to recognize Killian. He's glowing like a furnace, Extremis burning through his veins. Killian steps forward and Tony scrambles back. It's an awkward move and Killian laughs. "I've made her more perfect," he rants, "And she will be mine."

Tony ignores him. "Widow, copy," he demands, forcing his feet under him, pushing himself to stand. He aches all over.

"Mark XI," JARVIS says, "ETA, 48 seconds."

"Thank god," Tony breathes. He moves away from Pepper, from Killian, giving himself room as the Mark XI bursts through the wall and wraps around him.

He takes Killian's punch, catches his arm and flings the man over his shoulder. Killian grabs for him and they are falling through the already shattered wall and falling out onto the platform.  "Widow," Tony grinds out, because Pepper is all that matters.

"Just waiting for you to clear the area," Natasha says, like it's a casual conversation, like she's not hovering in a quinjet that Tony can see now, the suit's sensors picking it up, waiting to go scoop her lover up off the floor, like Pepper hasn't been _violated_ by this fucking _monster_.

"She was already perfect," Tony hisses, repulsor boots giving him enough height to leverage a satisfying punch on Killian. "You fucking psycho."

Killian just laughs, and he can _breathe fire_ , how the _fuck_ is that a thing?

"Did I not mention that?" Rhodey says, and Tony realizes he made that last observation aloud. "I'm here, Tony. What do you need?"

"I need you to make sure the president is safe," Tony reminds him. "I need Widow to make sure Pepper is safe."

"Done and done," Rhodey replies. He shoots a missile at Killian, which the fucker doesn't have the courtesy to pretend to dodge. Tony's annoyed at Rhodey, and torn up about Pepper, and so he's not paying attention when he closes with Killian again and the man gets a hand on him.

Killian smashes the left repulsor boot and slams Tony down on the platform. Tony's flat on his back, Killian leaning over him, Killian's hand burning a hole through the chest piece. " _I_ am the Mandarin," he taunts, but the naming of things isn't really a high priority on Tony's list right now. The heat from the chest piece is overwhelming and he can't breathe. He fires his repulsor in Killian's face, but Killian only laughs through his skin burning.

 _Bruce_ , Tony thinks. _God, Bruce..._

Something strikes the platform, causing the entire thing to shake like a high-rise in an earthquake, and with an ear-shattering roar Hulk swats Killian like a fly, sending him smashing into a stack of freight containers.

"Bruce," Tony breathes, and it's stupid but he knows he's smiling. His fingers work aimlessly at the catch for the chest piece, but he can't get it off. It's Rhodey, landing beside him heedless of Hulk, who manages to find the release and pull the armor away. The chest piece is still burning, and with it gone suddenly Tony can breathe so much better. He pulls off the helmet and looks up.

Hulk is looking at him, eyes deep and soulful, and tumultuous with boiling rage. "Tony," he says, voice shaking with emotion.

"I'm okay." Tony leans on Rhodey as Rhodey pretty much pulls him to his feet without any assistance from Tony. He smiles at Hulk. "I'm okay," he repeats.

Hulk growls and, quick like a striking viper, he sidesteps across the platform and smashes two huge fist shapes into the freight containers. It happens so fast that the first thing Tony becomes aware of is Rhodey's reaction- the quickening of his breath, his gauntleted fingers tensing on Tony's arm.

Tony wants to reassure Hulk, and Rhodey, and himself about Pepper, but they aren't quite done it seems. Killian bursts out of the pile of freight containers. His skin is red with the fire he contains and he breathes it out, engulfing Hulk in the firestorm.

The air is burning with the heat of it and it's Tony's fingers now clutching at Rhodey's arm as he gasps in disbelief. It _can't_... He knows it can't, but for a moment...

But then Hulk yells, his voice angrier than Tony's ever heard him, "SMASH!" His fist comes out of the fire and down on Killian, again, and again, and again. The rage that's in Hulk is like a force of nature, a tsunami of destruction focused on Killian but spilling over to decimate everything around the combatants. Tony knew- he's seen Hulk smash the shit out of things before- but he'd never before _felt_ the rage, like a tangible thing in the air. He can taste it, and it makes him feel small. Killian doesn't stand a chance, his predicament made worse by the Extremis, which tries to heal each blow as it's dealt, so that Killian can't just _die_ and be done with it, but he fights Hulk for every inch of life in him. Hulk is... immovable. Implacable. He doesn't stop smashing and tearing until bits of Killian are strewn to every corner of the platform.

In the time that takes, Mark IX and X arrive, but Tony just lets JARVIS hover them for the moment. Rhodey has already retreated to Natasha's quinjet where it landed on the far side of the platform; Rhodey hadn't said anything, for which Tony is too grateful for words. The situation is enough, the sheer power of Hulk's rage is enough, that even Tony would feel like speaking the word "airstrike" would not be an inappropriate response. At the moment he's not sure if he wouldn't be the one calling for it, except that, faced with the inferno, Tony's pretty sure there isn't anything the military can bring that would stop it. Thankfully, Rhodey doesn't speak, doesn't mention the Air Force at all, just closes his fingers around Tony's shoulder and squeezed gently before he goes to the quinjet to speak to Natasha.

Tony stands in the maelstrom and waits, until Hulk comes to him. Hulk curls his arm around Tony and pulls him close. "Tony," he says softly, or what's soft for him, and there is anguish in his voice.

The contrast between destruction and gentleness is so profound that Tony wants to build a wall between Bruce and the rest of the world, to invent a time machine just so he can have Brian Banner incarcerated before he can ever speak to his son, to just weep with the exhaustion that is filling him. But Tony smiles at Hulk, even though it's a bit forced because he's sore as hell and almost too tired to remember how his muscles work. "I'm okay," he repeats. "How you doing, big guy? Bruce okay?" He wants to ask if London is still standing, if there's a crater now running through the Atlantic, but it doesn't really matter to him and he'll find out later anyway.

"Banner lies," Hulk says gruffly, "Said he didn't believe. Tony is _not_ dead, and Hulk _smash everyone_ who says so."

Tony leans against Hulk, a stupid grin on his face. "You smashed real good," he croons, stroking his fingers up and down Hulk's arm. He feels post-battle lethargy and exhilaration and sleep-deprivation giddiness all stealing over him as he leans into the other man. "Oh man, I forgot how good you smell, it's been so long since I've seen you. God, Bruce." And he buries his face against Hulk.

Hulk grunts; he sounds worried.

Tony feels like maybe he loses some time because then Bruce's hand is on his head, and Bruce confirms, voice light and breathy, "Hulk's worried you hit your head, you're acting weird."

Tony moans and wraps his arms around Bruce, pulling him close, lips seeking lips. He shudders when Bruce holds him just as fiercely. Bruce is the first to pull away. "I'm a little worried, too," he says, voice steady as he looks into Tony's eyes, his hands holding Tony's face still. "You were favoring your right hand earlier, and I thought your pupils were uneven, but it may just be the light. Are you having blurred vision?"

"Pepper," Tony says. "I have to make sure Pepper's okay."

"You need to tell me if you're having blurred vision," Bruce repeats, as implacable as Hulk was a few moments before.

Tony closes his eyes because he's so tired he thinks he might start crying as over something as stupid as Bruce being worried about him. "No, it’s fine. Pepper?"

"Pepper's fine, Tony." It's Natasha. Tony turns and blinks at her, and realizes that he's standing on the ramp of the quinjet. He's not sure how he got there. "Everyone's fine."

 

It's not that simple of course, but it kind of is, too. Mostly because Bruce forcibly sedates Tony when, instead of sleeping when Bruce pushes him toward a flat surface, he keeps asking Rhodey questions and mumbling about Extremis and Pepper.

Tony would be annoyed, because he has too much work to do to sleep, but his body decides to stand with Bruce on this one and abruptly gives up without fighting the soft lure of darkness.

 

When Tony wakes, they're in New York. He recognizes his bedroom, though even before he's fully awake he can hear Bruce's voice, and, oddly, Steve.

"I've made my position clear," Steve is saying. He sounds... determined. "Let me know if they give you any trouble."

"I will," Bruce says. "But since we've been back I haven't seen them. I think they were just trying to capitalize on trying to steal the suit when everyone thought Tony was dead."

"They'd've been hard pressed to find a stupider plan."

Bruce laughs. He's trying to be quiet, but it still rings out and Tony thinks it might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard. Tony turns toward the sound as if drawn by a magnetic charge.

Bruce is sitting next to the bed. He's looking at a Starkpad propped up on his crossed knee, but his eyes flicker to Tony. "Talk to you later, Steve." Tony hears an affirmation, then Bruce disconnects and sets the pad on the bedside table. "Hey," he says.

Tony grins. "Hey," he says back. His voice is scratchy. He raises his hands to rub his face, and discovers his right hand is wrapped all around with an elastic bandage and his fingers are splinted. "I broke it?" He's honestly surprised; it hadn't hurt that badly. He moves and feels the more familiar burn from bruised ribs ripple up through him. He grunts.

"Nothing's broken, amazingly," Bruce says. "just a minor fracture and a lot of bruising. I had Doctor Keller use extra plaster, so you wouldn't damage it further while you slept."

Tony glares at him and Bruce chuckles. Bruce is here, and laughing at him, and that means there's just one question Tony has. "Pepper?"

Bruce's expression softens. "She's doing okay. For now. Natasha's with her. Doctor Keller is monitoring her, but Extremis isn't exactly her specialty. I'll take you down to see her, if you're ready."

Tony can feel the uneven stubble on his jaw and his stomach is sending out a growl worthy of Hulk, but he nods and pulls himself to the edge of the bed. Even with Bruce's help, it takes a moment before he can stand without falling down. "Get me something I can eat and walk at the same time," he says, and Bruce only nods.

They make their way down to the medical labs. Pepper rises from her bed and hugs him tightly when he walks in; Tony can't quite hold in the grunt of pain as her arms press against his bruised ribs. Natasha only looks at him searchingly. Tony sits at the workstation and has JARVIS bring up the readings from Keller's observations and Maya's notes.

He only notices Bruce's absence when he returns and presses a protein shake into Tony's hands. Tony'd swallowed a protein bar without much thinking about it on their way down, but as he takes the glass from Bruce he meets the other man's eyes and says, "Thanks." He means thanks for more than the shake- for understanding that he needs to do this, and for helping instead of hindering, god, for just helping him through all of this.

Bruce smiles. "You're welcome," Bruce says, and Bruce sits down next to him and they work the problem.

 

Tony almost figured this out more than a decade ago, when he was drunk off his ass. Now he's distracted with the dull rumble of pain whenever he moves that doesn't quite let the drugs drown it out and the pressure is like it's never been, but that almost helps him focus better, because this is _Pepper_ and he's going to fucking figure it out. Keller memorizes Maya's notes in a night so that she can help him- and Tony thought he was the only one who did things like that. And so he does figure it out, and he stabilizes the Extremis, and Pepper is going to be fine- because he's Tony Stark and that's what he does, he fixes things. But he's also grown up a little bit, and he remembers to thank Keller. She smiles and says, "Thank _you_ for the opportunity."

He and Bruce go back upstairs to the penthouse, and Tony really wishes he didn't have several bruised ribs, because he wants to show Bruce exactly how much he appreciates Bruce standing by him through this, helping him when Bruce has no reason to want to fix Pepper. Tony's got Bruce pressed against the side of the elevator, lips devouring each other, and he's wondering if he can still blow Bruce satisfactorily with aching ribs and one hand. When the elevator opens for their floor, Bruce surprises him. He leads Tony to the sofa, seats himself on one plush end of it and pulls Tony into his lap. "Tell me about your new suit," he says, his voice admiring. Someone who wants to get him started talking is still a newish phenomenon for Tony. "How did you get the seeking tech so specific?" Bruce strokes Tony's bare wrists and observes needlessly but because he knows Tony likes to hear his voice, "You're not using the bracelets. Did you link a DNA marker?"

Tony has the feeling Bruce isn't going to like his response- Pepper hadn't been thrilled, and it wasn't until she'd expressed concern over the bruises marking a line up both his arms that Tony'd even realized that maybe other people would find it... strange. But Tony's horny as shit and he can't hardly do anything about it and it makes him feel reckless. So he says, "Not exactly," and flips his arms over. The bruises are gone, but if Tony presses his fingers against the skin he can feel the hard ridges of the discs he injected into the flesh of his arm. "I have a subcutaneous transponder system. I can call the suit from, hell, _miles_ away, or even direct it to go to someone else." He tells Bruce excitedly about how he cast the suit to Pepper and she used it to get herself and Maya out of the crumbling mansion in Malibu. he falters slightly when he mentions Maya; while perhaps not a surprising casualty of Killian's madness considering how close she was to it, Tony hates it, hates losing anyone.

His attempt to distract Bruce from how he installed a subdermal call for the suit has ended with him thinking about what's been lost through Killian's excess, so, not great as far as distractions go.

Bruce takes a deep breath. Tony lays back against him, his bruised ribs only barely aching every time he breathes; he has Bruce behind him, all around him, Bruce's presence enough to let him relax fully against his lover. The throbbing ache of arousal, an inescapable consequence of Bruce's proximity, is like a counter against the wheeze of his ribs. But Bruce's hand trails down over Tony's hip to rest over the heat of Tony's cock, and Tony moans and bucks against that hand. Tony's good hand is fisted in Bruce's shirt, the bandaged one curled against his chest. His breathing is light and quick with mingled pain and arousal. "Relax," Bruce murmurs. "It'll help, to not be tense." His fingers are hooked at the closure of Tony's jeans and he pauses and says, "Tell me if I should stop."

Tony turns his head to press a kiss to Bruce's chin. "Never," he murmurs, and he pulls himself up further against Bruce with a grunt of pain so that he can kiss Bruce's ear and say again, "Never," right into that orifice and know that he was heard.

Bruce chides him softly for causing himself pain, but his fingers are working Tony's jeans open and taking the length of his cock in hand. Tony wasn't sure he could get hard, between the drugs and the thrum of pain underneath them, but he's so fucking horny. "I want you inside me," he murmurs to Bruce, taking the lobe of Bruce's ear between his teeth.

"Now _that_ would make your ribs worse," Bruce says with a low chuckle. His other arm is around Tony, up high under his armpits to avoid the sore ribs, his fingers spread over the arc reactor. He turns Tony slightly and claims his lips before they break apart and Bruce brushes his cheek against Tony's, inhaling deeply. "God, I... I thought I lost you." There's something almost broken in his voice, and Tony reaches for him.

"You didn't. Shh, Bruce, you didn't, I'm here." He forgets about his right hand and almost brains Bruce with the metal covering his fingers.

Bruce chuckles, the darkness broken for the moment. "No, I didn't." His hands slide down Tony's body again.

In the end, his climax is not as satisfying as Tony wants it to be, and he still aches, all over, like a motherfucker, but he's so tired, and he's blissed out a bit, and he falls asleep against Bruce, surrounded by the familiar presence, the smell of him, and the sound of those words in his ear, "I love you."

 

When Tony wakes it's probably eight to ten hours later. He goes down to the medical lab and bullies Keller's assistant in to cutting the splint off him by threatening to do it himself. Doctor Keller interrupts the procedure, but, surprisingly, she agrees with Tony.

"I understand Doctor Banner's urge to prevent you from doing further harm, especially when you were sleeping so deeply you were practically unconscious," she says, "but at this stage it will heal better if you continue to use the digits as much as you are able." She fixes him with a hard look that completely belies her soft appearance and genial bedside manner as she fits a lighter Velcro wrap around the fingers and his hand instead. "I trust you know not to push too hard, as improper healing could cause permanent damage."

Vindicated and chastised, Tony heads back up to the penthouse. JARVIS notified him when he asked that Pepper was with Natasha and he's not interested in interrupting them, especially since he's still not sure Natasha doesn't want to chew him out for failing to protect Pepper.

In the penthouse, Bruce is awake. He has a mug of coffee steaming beneath his nose and he takes one look at Tony's freed hand and glowers. It's like a switch that flips in Tony's head, and he has to push back against it. "I thought I'd ask the opinion of an actual medical doctor, and hey she agreed with me. I guess it pays to write the checks around here."

Bruce's eyes darken with anger for a moment, and Tony feels a thrill of exhilaration ripple through him- and of sorrow. Hurting Bruce isn't the goal; just the inevitable outcome, and it'll hurt less the sooner it happens.

"You remember what you said to me on the mountain?" Bruce says.

Braced and ready for battle, Tony is thrown by the non sequitur. "What?"

"'You know, you're never getting rid of me now,'" Bruce says, his eyes fixed on Tony's, and Tony is held, fascinated, by the green circles around Bruce's irises.

Tony feels his mouth fall open in protest. "You think that's the first time someone's used my own arguments against me?" he says hoarsely.

Bruce grins, the expression dark. "It's too late," he says, and he drinks his coffee.

"Too late for what?" Tony asks, because he wants to know, goddamnit, and just because he can't say the words doesn't mean he can't _feel_ them.

"For getting rid of me," Bruce says easily.

Tony opens his mouth, and JARVIS interrupts.

"Sir, you have an incoming call from London."

Tony buried the fingers of his left hand in his hair. "JARVIS, we need to work on your timing."

Bruce laughs, which Tony thinks isn't fair, but then the video call opens.

"Hey," Darcy Lewis says. She smiles at Bruce, and Tony hates the way it's something he's not a part of. "JARVIS said you got everything worked out. Thought I should let you know, Thor's back."

"Oh, good," Bruce says, and he sounds genuinely pleased. "I trust he and Jane are..."

Darcy rolls her eyes massively, and holds up a hand before he can even finish. "So, Ian and I moved into your floor at the hotel because whoever built Jane's building does not understand how sound works and it was giving me nightmares." She makes a face. "I had everything cleaned, and do not even fucking tell me anything, or so help me."

Bruce is trying to hide his laughter.

Tony sighs. "That was a fucking national landmark, woman. You can't just _clean_ something like that."

"Oh my God." Darcy has covered her ears. "I just wanted to let you know Thor was back to join the Superfriends; I do _not_ need anyone else adding to my sexual nightmares!"

"Thank you, Darcy." Bruce has turned a fetching shade of pink that Tony would like to experiment with.

"I wanna talk to him when he comes up for air," Tony puts in. "And Foster, too."

"I'll let them know." Darcy looks unimpressed. "You know, in like a memo or something."

 

 

Bruce is teaching Pepper aikido, a martial art that focuses on the flow of energy and non-lethal holds. Extremis makes her powerful, and amazingly- Tony would even say scarily- focused when it comes to fight-or-flight. She tends to pick "fight," because she's Pepper and Pepper Potts has never been good at backing down from anything. But Pepper is not a violent person by nature, and now her standing toe to toe with misogynistic business moguls is getting them a little crispy and that freaks Pepper out even more.

Tony likes to watch them sometimes, but it's too slow to hold his interest for long. Natasha also finds the adjective "non-lethal" less than thrilling. Tony is glad that Bruce and Pepper have something they can do together, but he still feels responsible. If Killian hadn't been targeting him, Pepper would have been safe.

 

 

Weakness is never an easy topic to bring up. "So, I've been thinking." Tony's right index finger is following the veins in the underside of Bruce's arm as they lay beside each other in bed. His other fingers are feathered out over Bruce's skin, and he is looking at this, not at Bruce's face in the low light. Bruce grunts the sort of post-coital, non-committal affirmation Tony would expect at whatever o'clock. He clears his throat. "I know a lot of people I guess, and I hadn't really thought about it until just a few weeks ago, I mean with the whole Killian thing, suddenly, you know Switzerland, it's on my mind, right? So I met this guy at this party-"

Bruce moves under him, his other hand coming up to capture Tony's wandering fingers. "Do I want to hear the rest of this story?" he asks. He sounds grumpy, his voice husky with the nightmares that kept the pair of them from sleep earlier, and to be fair it's probably closer to dawn than midnight.

Tony frowns. "What?" He shakes his head. "No, not like that. He was a heart surgeon. A really good one."

And Bruce stills, like he's actually listening for the first time. "Go on." His fingers start stroking Tony's wrist.

"I've been thinking about getting it out. The shrapnel. And, you know, without that there's no need for the arc reactor." He swallows and wets his lips. "With the technology and facilities I can provide, and Doctor Wu's magic fingers it should be easy peasy." He grins, and then remembers that Bruce isn't facing him to see it.

Bruce continues to stroke his fingers along the inside of Tony's wrist and doesn't answer right away. "But there's still a risk or you wouldn't be talking about this at..." He fumbles for the time, then says irritably when the lights come up, "I _don't_ actually want to know what time it is, JARVIS." He sighs, and Tony holds his breath because that's usually not a good sound, but Bruce rolls toward him, his eyes finding Tony's, and, like this, their faces are lit from below by the reactor. "It's your decision. I'll back you up, whatever you want."

Tony starts breathing again. "Aren't you supposed to get all, 'hey that's dangerous, don't do it?'"

Bruce's expression is sardonic. "You do remember who you're talking to, right?"

Tony drops his gaze, focusing his eyes on Bruce's throat. "I don't want to make you feel like I'm cheating."

Bruce frowns. "What?"

Tony huffs. "My burden. The terrible privilege? I don't want you to think that I-"

Bruce's thumb stills his lips as Bruce's hand cups his cheek. "Do not even think it," he says firmly. "Tony, just because you want to get metal taken out of your chest doesn't change who you are. It was supposed to kill you. You're beating that. You're still Iron Man.

"I know, you tried to reach out to me with comparing Iron Man to Hulk, but I don't think you were quite on the money." He sighs, pressing his forehead to Tony's. "Hulk is... he is everything ugly inside of me, distorted and magnified. It's taken a lot of work to figure out how to use that in a positive manner. Shut up," he says when Tony tries to speak.

"Iron Man is you, refined," Bruce continues. "You don't keep things hidden Tony, not like I do. You didn't have to expose anything to become a superhero. You just kept smelting until the dross was burned away." He kisses Tony softly on the lips. Tony lays still for a moment, stunned. Bruce smiles. "So, to recap, I think it's a good idea, though I'd love to go over everything with Doctor Wu beforehand of course. Now go to sleep."

They curl around each other, and JARVIS dims the lights back down. Tony feels Bruce's skin warm against his lips as Tony breathes against him, and he says, softly, "Thanks."

 

 

In the end Thor doesn't call them back. He just shows up.

Jane Foster comes, too, though she travels via registered aircraft instead of Thor Air, which even Tony would have to think wouldn't be comfortable trans-atlantically. Doctor Foster went through the stuff she and Bruce had gathered and she has a couple things she wants to discuss with Tony. And see if he has any equipment she doesn't.

To be fair, there isn't much that Foster hasn't been able to cobble together for her research, but she gets a certain avaricious light in her eye when he takes her through his workshop. "It's so shiny," she murmurs.

Tony grins, because he's an ass, but he's also trying to be a good person. "It's nice to be able to not have to build everything out of spare parts from old coffee makers," Foster blushes, "but you do lose that certain pride you get from knowing that you _can_ build a spectrometer from a handful of nails and the remains of a vacuum cleaner."

Foster shoots him a side-eye, but says, "Thanks," accepting the compliment it's meant to be.

What she's brought him is a collection of alien technology and alien artefacts. She's an astrophysicist, not an engineer; she mostly wants his opinion on the tech and was hoping he'd have a more powerful microscope with which she can look at the non-tech related artefacts. Bruce joins them for some of it. He's more interested in the chemical composition of the artefacts, and Jane leaves him some samples. There is one stone about the size of Bruce's fist that shimmers a dark purple with a warmth that almost feels alive.

Tony doesn't know how Thor isn't bored out of his mind, sitting there, a glazed look on his face while their talking dissolved into a steady stream of words that Tony's pretty sure the non-human in the room isn't catching any part of. But the god butts in enough that Tony sees that he isn't actually stupid about how things work, he's just satisfied that they _do_ work and doesn't have a desire to look deeper, to take things apart just to see what makes them tick. He can share some information about how the weapons functioned in battle, and he doesn't knock over any tables with his amazingly huge arms, so all is well as far as Tony is concerned.

Tony takes them all out for a night on the town afterward, because Thor should come to New York and actually get a chance to _experience_ it without having to babysit his crazy brother. They have dinner and go dancing, and Tony feels proud that everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. It's rare to see Bruce relax when there are people around, and seeing him laughing behind his hand when Jane tries to teach Thor how to waltz is a treat.

 

 

It's a few months after Jane and Thor go back to London when JARVIS shuts off Tony's working music to say, "Sir, I have a priority incoming call from Agent Romanoff."

Tony's welding, and he flips up his mask as he asks, "Doesn't she have the wrong number?" He's vaguely aware that Natasha went back to work after she and Pepper had a (relatively small) fight about Natasha hovering too much, and so she's probably calling from DC.

"She was initially concerned about Ms Potts, " JARVIs reports, "But I informed Agent Romanoff that she had been unable to reach Ms Potts via telephone as Ms Potts is currently with Doctor Banner who has requested that they not be disturbed. I assured her that I am detecting normal pulse and breathing rates for individuals engaged in calisthenics and there has been no sign of incursion."

Tony turns off his acetylene torch with a frown. "Incursion?" He motions JARVIS to put the call through and sets the face shield on the table. "What the hell is going on, Widow?"

He can hear Natasha breathing on the line. "SHIELD is Hydra," she says, succinctly. "Fury's dead. I'm with Rogers, and a new friend. They tried to kill us, blew up an ally to make sure we didn't tell anyone about it. I thought they might strike at you. We're on our way to-" He hears something near her explode. Widow swears, and Tony hears yelling in the background, then the line cuts off.

Tony is numb for a moment with shock, but he pulls himself to his feet and gestures with one hand. "JARVIS, override and call Bruce." The Mark XIII armor is forming up around him as JARVIS raises Bruce's level on the speaker. "Natasha called," he says. "SHIELD is Hydra and something's going down in DC. I'm already en route; you and Pepper take the quinjet." He can hear Pepper in the background, fear making her voice harsh.

"Understood," Bruce says, and his voice is tight. Tony can't tell if he's nervous- the last time Hulk appeared was the day he reduced an oil rig pretty much down to its atomic particles- or if he's worried for Tony- who did sort of _just_ fake Bruce into thinking he was dead, his bad.

 

Tony is over DC in about half an hour. JARVIS calculated Natasha's position from the call, though Tony knows she's probably not there anymore. En route, JARVIS hacked SHIELD and downloaded a priority notice that Captain America was a wanted fugitive, consider armed and dangerous. Tony is desperately trying to raise someone in DC just so he can ask them what the _ever-loving fuck_ is going on. No one picks up at SHIELD, even at the direct lines he hacks for Fury and Hill. Tony's not surprised about that. He only has one number for Steve; that was the first number he tried after trying to redial Natasha.

He finds the phone Natasha called from under the wreckage of a car in the middle of a trashed freeway overpass. Construction crews are just beginning to make a dent in the mess and emergency crews are packing the injured off to hospitals and are still clearing the dead. Phone down; he just needs to find _her._ He's maybe an hour behind her at this point.

"Tony," Bruce's voice, still tight and controlled, sounds in his ear. "We're near the Triskelion. There's multiple helicarriers, rising out of the river." He pauses. "There's something familiar... Didn't Fury contact you about repulsor engines?"

Tony's in the air the minute Bruce says where they are, and he's looking down at the river as he listens to Bruce. " _Three_ helicarriers?" he murmurs. "Some people are _so_ materialistic." But it falls flat when he remembers that Fury is dead. "Yeah, that's my tech." He wants to shake his head. "What on earth does he need three for? Like the first one wasn't enough of a mid-life penis-car. Can you find Cap or Widow in all that mess?"

Pepper answers him, "Not yet."

"If SHIELD is Hydra, I'm not sure we want to let those things get into the air," Tony muses.

Suddenly a man jumps off the wharf near where the ships are rising and he is airborne, broad wings carrying him through the air. He heads up toward one of the helicarriers. "I recognize that prototype," Tony says, and he heads toward the man, who whirls his head around and makes a waving motion at Tony. Tony's not sure who this guy is- if he's Hydra or something else- so he zooms in close and grabs the other man by the front, where the wing support is strapped across his chest. He lifts them upward in the air and pops the faceplate. "Who are you?" he demands.

"Sam Wilson," the man grits out. He points to the other helicarrier, the farthest one from them. "Cap is there. We have to replace the guidance chips." His hands close over Tony's armored wrists with a surprising grip. "You here to help?" He fixes Tony with a no-nonsense look.

"Yes," Tony says shortly. "Where's Widow?"

"Triskelion," Wilson says as he hands Tony one of the chips. "She and Fury are after Pierce. He's head of Hydra."

Tony narrows his eyes. "She said Fury was dead."

Wilson grins. "We thought so. You take Alpha. I've got Bravo." He touches his ear. "Got that Charlie?"

"JARVIS, match frequency," Tony murmurs, as he turns them and tosses the Falcon toward the helicarrier. Wilson easily swoops under the broad bow of the craft and toward the glassed-in command center.

"Tony." They haven't talked in a while, and Steve's voice sounds different from what Tony remembers, more focused. "Glad you could stop by."

Tony grins. "Well, you know, Widow called and mentioned you guys were having a party. Couldn't resist."

"Less talking, we're on a timeline, " he hears Maria Hill say.

Tony shoots a jet off his tail as he works his way under the helicarrier. "Yeah, yeah. Get all that, Pep?"

"Already in route," Bruce says. There is a dark humor in his voice. Tony sees the quinjet zip past him, headed for the upper floor of the Triskelion. He kind of really wants to go with them, to see Pepper let loose on Alexander Pierce. Tony never liked that guy.

"Bravo lock," Wilson says.

Tony lines up a shot at the command center of his helicarrier and shoots his way in; putting the card in the slot is kind of anticlimactic, but it's done. "Alpha lock, or whatever." He forgot to ask Wilson _why_ that was the goal- i.e. who controls the helicarriers _now_. "Step two?" He swings out wide, hovering for a moment to scan the air battlefield. The sky is surprisingly clear of smaller craft; there's something burning on the ground, and Tony surmises that somehow the aerial back up got taken out before it got airborne.

Tony swings by the third helicarrier, wondering what's taking Steve so long. Suddenly, something comes flying off the body of the machine; it's Wilson, but spiraling with only one wing functional. "Shit," Tony breathes, immediately veering toward the falling man. "Wilson, I see you."

"Don't worry about me," Wilson says harshly. "I've got it covered." And he ejects the wing from the apparatus and pops a parachute for a controlled descent. "Help Steve."

And Steve's hanging on to the edge of the airship with his fingernails, and he slips and he's suddenly hanging by the straps of the shield. He looks down and sees Tony. "Can I get a boost?"

"Did you have to ask?" As Steve pulls his feet up to push off enough to get the shield free he flips off the side of the helicarrier, and Tony catches him and tosses him back up onto the main deck.

"Thanks," he says, though rather than thankful he sounds grim. "I've got this. Help Sam."

So Tony heads off to do a flyby on the Triskelion. The quinjet is parked on the roof next to a helicopter. He can see, through the glass wall, Pepper punching Pierce in the face. "JARVIS, save that image," he murmurs with satisfaction, but he also feels guilty because he knows Pepper hates this. He doesn't see Wilson anywhere, so he heads down to the ground floor.

It's somewhat impossible to tell who is on what side, but he takes a rather broad approach that anyone shooting at anyone else should be stopped from killing other people. He subdues and disarms anyone who fits the bill.

"Rogers?" Hill says. Time isn't exactly linear in the midst of battle, but Tony feels like it's taking Steve a really long time to get this taken care of.

"Almost," Steve grits out, followed a few tense moments later by, "Charlie lock."

Hill says something he doesn’t quite catch, but Tony finds his question of _who’s in control_ answered as the helicarriers begin to fire upon each other.

Tony makes a high pass near the Triskelion. One of the helicarriers is lilting toward the building.

"Bruce," Tony says in question.

"We're clear of the building," Bruce says. His voice is less tense but he sounds distracted. "I have Pepper, Natasha, Fury, Hill, and a handful of SHIELD personnel." He pauses, then says hurriedly, "Hill says Falcon's coming out hot. You near the forty-first floor?"

"Like there's numbers on the outside of the building," Tony grouses, but he's passing close and he sees Wilson hit the glass as the building crumbles behind him. Tony swoops down and catches him. "Guess you don't got it covered," he quips.

Wilson rolls his eyes but admits, "Never been on the other side of para-rescue." Tony grins, but Wilson's expression is firm. "What's the status?" he asks. His hand goes to his ear. "Lost my comm in the melee."

Tony turns and gestures to the quinjet. "Hill, Natasha, Fury- all there." And he asks, because they haven't heard from Steve in a while, "Bruce, any word on Cap?"

Bruce checks with Hill. "No. Can you see him anywhere?"

Tony and Wilson pass over the river, looking for any sign of Steve. Wilson has Tony carry him to the bank to search on foot. Neither of them find anything.

Tony watches as Bruce lands the quinjet and his passengers disembark, joining the search for Steve, or, really, just anything salvageable in the wreckage. Emergency responders are searching for survivors in the rubble; military personnel are arresting anyone who doesn't need medical attention.

 

"I'm getting a report," Wilson says finally. "They found Steve on the bank of the river; they're taking him to the hospital."

 

Tony regroups with Bruce and Pepper. Pepper has her hands wrapped firmly around Natasha's; the paramedic is redressing a gunshot wound high on Natasha's shoulder and he's watching Pepper with a sort of worshipful fear. Tony's pretty sure Pepper did her thing in front of the guy. Natasha is also looking a little subdued. Not that Tony can blame her- Pepper freaking out is enough without also just finding out the organization you work for happens to be evil, and then there's the fact that Steve's still in pretty rough shape.

Tony asks, so Natasha tells them some of the details of what went down. The paramedic has left so it's just her, him, Pepper, and Bruce. It really starts to sink in for Tony: SHIELD was Hydra, always had been. He wonders he didn't notice anything about it when he hacked their files last year, though, truth be told, he was kind of in a hurry, and looking specifically for files on the Tesseract- something he could rub in Fury's face. If Hydra could hide from SHIELD so easily for so long, well, he hadn't been looking that closely. It's... a betrayal, of something he doesn't really care about personally, but something his father helped to build. On that topic, Natasha says, "Tony, you should look at the files."

He nods. She'd said she dumped SHIELD's, and Hydra's, secret files on the public net. "JARVIS is already on it," he says.

She looks at him. "Tony, you should look at them," she repeats. Tony can tell that she's tired, else she would have either just told him herself whatever it is he needs to know or deflected better. So Tony cuts her a break and turns away to pull out his phone.

"JARVIS, anything you want to share?"

JARVIS is hesitant, which is weird. "I am still cataloging the data, sir, as there are several million pages and much of it is encrypted. However, there are some files I think you would find of particular interest." And he sends them to the phone.

The file is a report of an action in December of 1991. There was a team of four Hydra agents. Their names are listed: Simmons, F. ( _head_ ); Caldwell, S.; Lavin, L.; Kenmore, M. It's so... _bureaucratic_ , Tony wants to scream. There was a car accident- he doesn't linger on that, on the _how_ , because the entire thing is too familiar in Tony's mind. He raises a shaking finger to open the folders on each of the agents. The faces of the four men pop up, each one marked "eliminated." Tony sits down. Apparently taking out his parents was so top secret, they had someone take out the team that was primarily responsible. He never knew Hydra covered their tracks so well.

He feels Bruce come up behind him and lay a hand on his shoulder. Bruce takes the phone from Tony's nerveless fingers, and says softly, "Oh, wow." He squeezes Tony's shoulder and Tony raises his other hand to cover Bruce's, hold it there. "Tony. I'm so sorry."

Tony swallows. "It doesn't change anything." And really, whether accident or assassinated by Hydra, his parents are still dead. "Maybe it changes who I'm mad at." But he suddenly thinks of something. "Oh shit, do you think Obie..." He can't even finish the thought, and he's holding Bruce's hand so tightly.

Bruce leans into him, forehead pressed to Tony's temple. "Maybe," he says honestly. "Maybe not. Maybe he was too greedy to work with Hydra. Maybe he wasn't greedy at all until after, when he thought he could manipulate you." He waits a moment before he continues. "You're right, it doesn't change what happened. But, Tony, it's okay to be angry, and to mourn. They took something from you."

Tony nods, but he's mostly just numb. He thought he'd mourned this already- though it's never really stopped being a throbbing mass of pain in his chest, ever since the day he heard the news. His hand goes to his chest now, but there's nothing there, just a ridge of scar tissue- and the loss wells up in him, and he's angry all of the sudden, that he misses the arc reactor more than he misses his parents.

Bruce's hand covers his, and he can feel Bruce sitting beside him. Tony kind of wants to get drunk, to stave off the deeper, cutting anguish of loss and helpless anger that he knows are coming. He's really tried not to drink so much lately, because he knows how twitchy it makes Bruce... and because Bruce is so much more fulfilling than Scotch. On second thought, he kind of wants to screw Bruce's brains out, and he feels better knowing that that is something he can most certainly have.

 

Wilson is watching over Steve. Apparently Steve got the stuffing kicked out of him, which is kind of unnerving to think about because Steve is one of the more hardcore people Tony knows. Wilson attributes it to James Barnes- Steve's old chum, long-time tool of Hydra, and additional bad-ass super soldier. Tony wonders what kind of odds it takes for two best friends to end up as the only super soldiers in the world after decades of trying to reinvent Erskine's formula- and to find each other again seventy years later. It's almost more mind-blowing than SHIELD being Hydra.

By the time Tony and Bruce get by the hospital, Steve's awake. He smiles when he sees them, but Tony is shocked by how different Steve looks. Back when they first met there was something about him like a man looking for a battle to die in. Now, he's focused with a goal in his sight.

"We need to root out Hydra," he says to Tony, in all seriousness. "It can't be allowed to continue." Even beaten and lying battered in a hospital bed, Steve is all fire. He leads from the front line and even Tony, who rebels against authority figures on an instinctive level, responds to him.

"Yes," he says. It's not a lot, but he means it in all ways: yes I'm with you, yes I can supply you with whatever you need, yes we will fight this battle together.

Steve nods; one word was all he needed to hear.

It's Bruce who mentions the other part. "And your friend Barnes? Sam said he disappeared."

Steve's face darkens and his hands clench into helpless fists. "I'm going to find him." It's stated like a fact. "I'm going to help him." His expression almost falls, but he closes his eyes and turns away. "I thought he was dead. I'm... He was always there for me. I have to make sure he knows, he's not alone. Not anymore."

 "I can help with that, too," Tony says.

Steve gives him a look of such gratitude. "Thanks. You don't have to, I'm sure a lot of people wouldn't, so thanks."

Tony shrugs and deflects. "So maybe he assassinated America's most beloved president, meaning we've actually solved one of the most popular conspiracies of all time, but it's not like he drank the koolaid. I mean, yeah, I guess in a grossly literal way they plugged him full of their agenda. I read some of the files that were in the dump. So, I know- I mean, I know what it's like. To have crazy guys with guns want you to make them weapons, and I got lucky, with... with Yinsen. I had somebody to put me back together and point me toward a way out, and maybe he didn't have that but we can give that to him now."

Tony knows he's rambling. When he stops Steve looks kind of stunned. Bruce's arm slides around Tony's waist and he kisses the back of Tony's neck. Tony takes a deep breath.

Steve's expression is softer. "Thank you," he says again. Tony just nods.

 

It's too much, and Tony takes Bruce and heads to a hotel. He can hardly wait to get Bruce to himself, and once there is a wall between them and the rest of the world, Tony buries himself in Bruce. There are no feelings that matter outside of this flesh under his fingers and the only thing he wants to think about is how loud he can make Bruce scream his name.

Bruce meets him there, in that space of quiet heat and familiarity, but he is still _Bruce_ and so he keeps one foot on the ground, unwilling or unable to lose himself the way Tony wants to be lost. It's even hotter, losing himself against the steady rock of Bruce, and looking into his eyes and seeing the fire that’s banked there, and Tony shivers because this is better than anything he thought he'd ever have.

 

They spend an entire day laying around and fucking, which Tony can't believe Bruce indulges him in, but that afternoon Tony's already got JARVIS folded out, between the suit and his phone, projecting screens of information in the air, and he's reviewing more Hydra files. So when Bruce tempts him back to bed Tony realizes _why_ Bruce is indulging him, because he _knows_ that Tony's going to tunnel into this Hydra shit and not come up for air until he fixes it.

Tony consciously chooses to let Bruce distract him, for now. And tomorrow they can go back home and start taking Hydra out.

Tony's phone rings at the asscrack of the morning.

"Motherfucker," he answers it. "Who is this?"

"It's Barton." His voice is almost unrecognizable even after he identifies himself. "I'm two blocks from the Tower."

It takes Tony a minute- because how the fuck did Barton dial him direct without JARVIS intercepting, and what the fuck does he care if Clint Barton is in Manhattan- but then he _does_ remember what happened a few days ago. "We're not there," he says.

"I lost my key in an explosion," Barton says, "We need to lie low and we need medical attention. **"**

"Fuck," Tony observes. He thrusts out his hand, looking for a light, swearing because JARVIS doesn't run the entire world yet, and he ends up hitting Bruce in the face, and he wakes with a growl.

Tony finds the light. Bruce is blinking at him. "Call Keller," Tony says to him, already getting out of bed, looking for him pants. "Tell her Barton's on his way in."

Bruce rubs his face but huffs an assent and fumbles with his phone.

"Barton," he says into the phone, "Bruce is calling Keller, she'll be waiting. She's head of the medical floor." Bruce is looking more awake and Tony has found his pants. "We'll be there in half an hour," he says.

He hangs up and looks at his phone for a moment. "JARVIS, what the hell?"

"My apologies, sir. My protocols seem to have been overridden."

"There's no way Barton did that," Tony is grumbling to himself, and he suddenly stops as he's trying to disentangle his shirt from where it's somehow gotten irrevocably twisted with the bedsheets, because there _was_ someone who did that. "Impossible. He's dead." But apparently there's a nasty case of _supposed to be dead_ going around this week. "Son of a bitch."

"What are you talking about?" Bruce says. His voice is gruff, but the words are far more patient than Tony would give in a similar situation.

Tony is snapping his fingers at JARVIS, readying the Mark VII and XII. "We need to head back to New York."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack listing: "Castles Made of Sand" is performed by Jimi Hendrix.


	3. It's a Mixed Up, Muddled Up, Shook Up World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Battle of New York, Clint gets transferred to a different SHIELD division and discovers there is a lot going on under the surface. (or, Clint _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead_ 's AoS season 1)

**Location:** Universe MTYTYA, Designation: Prime(Alpha)  
_New York SHIELD facility  
7 months pre-anomaly_

 

"Barton."

Clint stands in front of Director Fury's desk and says brightly, "Yes, sir?"

Fury gives him that dead-eyed glare that says he's not buying it, but Clint's okay with that. Fury hasn't been buying anything Clint's been selling since Clint pretty much drifted through the post mission briefs after the Loki incident.

"I'm reassigning you."

Clint inhales. "Has there been a complaint?" He holds himself very still.

Fury is watching him carefully and Clint looks right back at him. His eyes miss nothing, but Fury doesn't have tells the way that normal humans do. Trying to read the Director is like watching someone speaking a language he doesn't know perform a play he's never seen: he doesn't understand the words, and the actions are all affected- they tell the story they are supposed to tell and reveal nothing of the one who tells it.

"No," Fury says finally, then pauses. "Actually yes. The complaint comes from me. I was hoping I'd gotten one of my best agents back after some alien messed with his head, but he appears to still be missing." Clint's fingernails are gouging marks in the flesh of his palms, his hands are clenched so tightly. "I'm sending you to Hand," Fury says as he looks down at his desk in dismissal. "You'll receive your transfer orders tomorrow."

Clint half steps forward, mouth open in protest, but Fury suddenly snaps his gaze back up to Clint and Clint falls silent.

"Yes, sir," he says crisply. He turns and walks out of the room.

 

It's not that Victoria Hand isn't a badass, because she is, and it's not that Clint's feeling particularly attached to his current assignment, because it's kind of shit. Clint would agree that it's important to take pride in your work and Clint is fucking amazing at kicking the snot out of baby agents and then being there to help them pick up the pieces and throw themselves back into the firefight. But after New York even the faces fresh from the Academy knows who he is in a way that is more unsettling than he thought it'd be, and it has been more work than he wants to expend to get them to stop walking on eggshells around him and trust him enough to make this agent thing work. And after... after everything, working with teams in the field just isn't the same. He's had the occasional mission but he tends to go it solo even when he's supposed to be listening to the supervising officer. He knows he passed all the psych evals. He knows that Fury's annoyed that he doesn't trust himself to rely on others when he should. Clint _knows_. He just doesn't fucking care. They don't get it, no one understands, not even Nat. He got... people killed. Some of them... one of them... maybe mattered to him more than the rest. He wasn't even there; he doesn't even know what really happened. Nat told him what happened. She wouldn't lie to him.

Just because it isn't his fault doesn't mean it's not his fault.

 

So it's not really Hand he's thinking about when he shows up for his new assignment at the Hub. She looks him over with the well-practiced examination of a lifted eyebrow and assigns him to desk duty.

Every inch of Clint's being rebels against it, because even babysitting junior agents on the shooting range kept a bow in his hand, but he knows it's a test. It's a different sort of testing than Fury gave him, but it's still a test. So he bites his tongue and does his job. He knows Hand is not just by the book, she's _all_ about the book- so he laser sights his "i"s and slashes the throats of his "t"s and makes sure all the paperwork gets filed on time. She only makes him suffer it for one week.

Hand is smiling at him when he comes to her office at the end of that week. She doesn't say anything, just hands him a file. But that's the beauty of the book. She just wanted to know he was still able to follow the rules before she let him out to make havoc in her sandbox. Clint likes it better than Fury's "find yourself" testing. He's even aware enough of his own psychosis to admit, to himself, that it worked better. He actually _wants_ to open this file and learn about this job, which he hasn't wanted since... just since.

Hand doesn't try to get in his head. She doesn't make him think about the ramifications of his actions. She doesn't make him work with teams when he can do it solo. She gives him assignments, he accepts the assignments, or doesn't. There is always the possibility of suggesting that the mission be retasked elsewhere and Clint likes to toy with the idea of refusing a job just to see what Hand says. But she knows his rep well, and every assignment she offers him is almost perfectly tailored to his strengths.

 

He misses Nat. He can't blame her: _he_ was the one who went silent when they used to keep in touch no matter what, come hell or undercover. He was the one who stopped answering her contacts, but he still misses her. He stalks her as much as possible through the SHIELD database and daydreams that her life is going fantastically well. She's flitting back and forth between Malibu and DC at the moment. He should call her, but he can't think of anything to say that isn't a rehash of the last ten conversations they've had.

_"Clint." Her eyes are impassioned, her expression intent, as if she can impart this truth to him through the power of her will. "Don't carry this. It's not your fault. This was so far beyond us."_

_He just shrugs because, "The results are the same."_

 

 

Clint's been based out of the Hub for a couple weeks. He's in the commissary one night, chatting with Agent Lorne. They're both just back from missions on opposite sides of the globe- Clint's third one since transferring- sitting there at three in the morning, drinking coffee and comparing notes while they wait for the jet lag to disappear. Lorne's a coordinator, not a sniper, so they have completely different views on the usefulness of decorative gables, particularly on Japanese Shinto temples. Discussing it at the top of their lungs seems appropriate, but that's probably the caffeine talking. At some point Agents Jackson and Sheppard walk in, leading the early shift, and laugh at Clint's reenactment of using a Shinto prayer shrine to facilitate extraction from a sticky situation.

"Man, you should have been on site last week," Sheppard says. "They dropped this Level Seven in the Caucasus with no extraction and made him babysit some rookie techie. Somehow they managed to not die." He lets a pause fill the air as he takes a big swig of his cooling coffee before adding, "Now _that's_ a story I'd like to hear."

Clint grins. "What agent?"

Sheppard shrugs. "You know Hand, man. Need-to-know."

"It was Ward, I think," Jackson says. "I've trained with him before. Guy's got the personality of Wonder Bread, but he gets the job done." He sips at his mug. "I heard their team went in after them when they heard there was no extraction, yanked 'em from behind lines."

Clint whistles. "Can't imagine Hand enjoyed that," he says, but he's thinking about Natasha, about Rogers and the look of assessment on the helicarrier- the complete acceptance once Nat vouched for him, fighting as a _team_ , the way that the battle, the aliens, Loki, made everything else but _this moment_ fade into the background. And then he remembers what he learned afterward and something inside him chills.

Jackson laughs.

Sheppard grins. "The team leader must have been at her level. Can't chew someone's ass when you're not their superior."

Clint snorts. "Even other Eights aren't at Hand's 'level.'"

Everyone knocks their mug together for that. "True say, true say," Lorne says, and they all laugh.

 

 

Clint's on a mission in Sydney when he gets an organization wide notice. There's a manhunt underway for a missing agent.

Clint is reassigned to infiltrate a Centipede facility with McKay, a coordinator he's never worked with before but who is downright paranormal with the precision of the infiltration he plans. They have the site locked down fairly quickly, definitely compared to other teams- Clint messages Lorne, whose team takes an entire twenty minutes longer to secure their premises. Mocking is less satisfactory via plain text, but Clint makes do.

Centipede is going down all over the globe, and Clint gets tasked back to the Hub.

He goes in for his new assignment- a pretty sweet gig which involves shooting human traffickers, always fun, and then setting up a sting in their swank hotel to snag their buyers as well. As he's leaving he says to Hand, "You found him, right?" She gives him a quizzical look and he elaborates, "The missing agent. You got him back, right?"

She gives him a long, thoughtful look. "Yes," she says finally.

Clint nods and goes on his way, wondering why Hand's being odd today.

 

Clint's tagging along on a transport drop to the Fridge, when he runs into Antoine Triplett.

"Well, well." He's grinning like a smug fucker and he knows it as he claps Trip on the shoulder. "You made it through the rest of the training. I had my doubts, what with that legacy you were living on. Those tend to fizzle out."

"You're such an ass, Barton," Trip says, but he's smiling, too. "I was feeling nostalgic about those days as a cadet until you opened your mouth."

"What, nostalgic? For me?"

"I said for those days at the Academy. I don't think one specialist guest instructor really qualifies as enough to encompass the entirely of that time in my life."

Clint leans into him. "That's not what you used to say," he sasses back smartly.

Trip turns away, but Clint can see it's because he's trying not to laugh. "Yeah, well, things change."

Clint raises an eyebrow. "Change? I'm fucking wounded, _wounded_. How can you say things like that to me?"

And Trip laughs, unable to hold back any longer. There's a glint and a promise in his eye as he reaches over to rest his hand on Clint's shoulder. But he's a good enough agent that he can see that Clint's mostly joking.

He turns, and the pair of them walk along the hallway toward operations command. "You got some mileage on you, Barton. What happened?"

Clint freezes up a little. "You didn't hear?"

Trip shrugs. "The usual." His eyes flick over to Clint again. "Rumor. And I watch the news. Not that Garrett leaves us much downtime."

"Holy shit, you're working under John Garrett? I remember him. It's been awhile, but he used to work with-" And Clint freezes up again, and he has to sidle around the words he was about to say, and instead he says, "me and Natasha." He's trying not to think, so he keeps talking. "He's quite the taskmaster."

"You're not kidding. Right now I'm just trying to live up to the last specialist he had. Guy can walk on water to hear Garrett tell it."

"Yeah? Who's that?"

"Grant Ward."

The name sounds kind of familiar, but Clint doesn't remember why. "You're good, kid. You'll do well. And if Garrett can't recognize the awesomeness that's being dropping in his lap, then that's his loss." Clint bumps shoulders with Trip as they walk. "If Garrett drops you, I could get you on my team. I should have my own team. I could be a Level Eight, right? I'm Level Eight material."

Trip grins. "I'd have to turn you down, man. You know I love you, right? But you are not exactly what I'd look for in a coordinator."

It doesn't sting, because Clint agrees. He doesn't necessarily like to follow orders, but he has enough on his hands without taking responsibility for the agents under him. That was always... Well, that was always Phil's lookout, and Clint can't unthink it but he can't really look straight at it without flinching either.

"You're doing it again," Trip says.

"What?"

"Thinking about what's eatin' you." Trip looks at him. "I know you, man. It's more than just aliens blowing up New York. It's something personal."

"It's something Level Seven," Clint says.

"Yeah, I'll buy that."

Clint looks over at him and catches Trip looking back at him. They both smile, and Clint lets the memories of their brief but entertaining time together come to the forefront of his mind. He's not really feeling it, but he asks, "You hanging around?"

"Are you kidding? Just got here, and Garrett's jumping us back out in less than thirty minutes. We're on our way out to pick up Ian Quinn for interrogation and transport. Apparently the team who caught him aren’t keen on bringing him in." He shrugs, like he really doesn’t mind the idea of this transition not going smoothly.

Clint nods, and he doesn't know why but he's glad to be turned down. "Catch you on the turnabout."

 

Hand packs him off to fucking Alaska for a long term op.

He gets back to find out there's been some sort of dustup about someone called the Clairvoyant. The rumor is that golden boy Ward that Clint's heard so much about is in the shithouse, but getting the full gossip at the commissary with Lorne is gonna have to wait, because he has to report in to Hand.

He enters Hand's office, sure that she's expecting him, but apparently she's not, because she's on the phone with someone else.

"I appreciate the respect you've shown me in giving him to me, but I have to say, Director, that I do not appreciate you treating need-to-know regulations as your personal system of information organization." She is listening for a moment, and Clint can only hear the murmur of a voice. It could easily be Fury but he can't tell for sure. Hand frowns. "I do not have time to police your regulations. I respect that it's need-to-know, but Level Seven access allows-" She stops and listens again, her expression darkening. "Sir, I make it my business when you make _me_ your secret keeper." She looks up, sees Clint, and says, "Good day, Sir." She disconnects the line. "Your field report, Agent Barton."

Clint has the weirdest feeling that whatever she was talking about had to do with him. But it's not like he can ask her that straight up, so he opens his mouth to give his initial report.

It's not that long- for all that he was there long enough to freeze every part of his body, not a lot happened- and then he's off to the commissary. Lorne is just leaving but he stays to have another drink with Clint, and Sheppard and McKay are sitting at the next table, and all of them are filled with humor at Clint's misfortune concerning ice in places ice _should not exist_. This sparks a round of stories about ice, and Clint laughs so hard at Sheppard's arctic misfortunes that he forgets to ask about what happened while he was gone.

 

He gets some downtime, which is great because he sleeps for twenty hours straight, after being in a land where the sun doesn't understand the basic day/night cycle completely screwed up his internal clock, and so it's three days before he's headed back in to get his next mission from Hand. She barely hands him the folder when a wide-eyed junior agent opens the door to Hand's office. "Agent Hand, we need you in the situation room. There's some sort of encoded blanket signal blocking all communications."

Hand narrows her eyes, and Clint's ready to help her rip this junior agent a new hole for interrupting, when he actually looks at the fear on the young woman's face. He can hear the rising sound of commotion behind her, feet running and voices shrill with alarm.

Hand stands and moves to the door, Clint falling in at her shoulder.

"We've been getting this electronic interference," the junior agent says. Her voice is tense with fear. "We were able to decode this."

And emblazoned across the screen are the words: HAIL HYDRA.

Clint feels something cold run up his spine. Agents all across the room are looking at each other in shock and growing suspicion. Though, some of them aren't the least bit shocked; those ones tend to be the ones turning their hand held weapons on their fellow agents.

Clint grabs the junior agent and hauls her down beside him out of the line of fire, both of them forming a shield for Hand. Hand barely blinks before she's pulling her own sidearm and turning on those who've turned on her agents. The room dissolves into chaos.

There must be a point where Hand agrees that the situation room is indefensible, because she retreats down the hallway back toward her office. Clint follows her. They back around a corner in the hall and almost run over Lorne.

Agent Evan Lorne is probably the only person on base Clint would call a friend, and he feels a pang of mixed emotion when Lorne immediately pulls a gun on them. It's not the first time Clint's faced former allies over loaded weapons, but the experience has soured for him quite a bit after those days leading up to the incident in New York.

But Lorne doesn't fire immediately. He's flanked by McKay and another agent Clint doesn't know. "Are you Hydra?" Lorne asks them, or Hand to be more precise.

Hand gives him a decent imitation of Fury's famous dead-eye glare. She seems to be weighing her options, but the junior agent is the one who speaks first.

"I'd die before I worked for Hydra," the young woman says. She is so afraid, her hand shaking so badly Clint wants to take her gun away just on principle. She looks like she'd be more comfortable holding a PowerPoint printout and a laser pointer instead of stuck in the middle of a deadly test of loyalty.

Hand looks at her and smiles. "Agent Hailey, the number of people I trust is now one." She rests her hand on Agent Hailey's shoulder and looks at Lorne.

Lorne lowers his weapon and takes a deep breath. "Agent Hand, I was sure hoping we'd have a higher level agent still loyal to SHIELD."

Hand narrows her eyes. "We need to retake possession of the Hub." She side-eyes Clint. "Agent Barton."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you feel like declaring an allegiance?"

Clint blinks. "I hadn't realized that was in doubt. Ma'am."

Lorne's gun is rising again. He looks torn but resolute. "Jackson was Hydra, man. He shot Sheppard."

Clint closes his eyes. "Then I don't blame you for suspecting everyone. But if I'm gonna get shot for something, it had better not be for being a fucking Hydra agent." He looks at Hand, awaiting her decision.

She gives him a narrow, gimlet look from behind her glasses that seems to say she's already regretting her decision. "Agent Barton, I respect that we are in trying times, but please be aware that in the future any further display of such language will result in disciplinary action."

Clint almost feels nostalgic; Phil liked to threaten him with disciplinary action fairly often. Not that it was completely unwarranted in most cases.

Hand is still watching Clint. "Fury sent you to me special, Agent Barton, but I had to ask. If Hydra has infiltrated SHIELD, then they must be placed highly to have remained covert and undiscovered." She is watching him closely, but addresses her entire team. "We should divide and conquer. We need to lock down the Hub, we need to reestablish communication with other bases, and I would like status confirmation on other high level SHIELD agents, namely Hill, Blake, Sitwell, Garrett, and Coulson."

Clint freezes. If the knowledge of Hydra was like a frisson of cold running up his spine, this feels like his entire body has turned to ice. He swallows; it feels painful. "Ma'am. Agent Coulson is dead."

Hand's eyes are locked on him. "Director Fury is no longer giving orders in my Hub, and it is my discretion to dispense information that I feel is critical to mission success. Agent, Director Fury lied to you, deliberately, and in full knowledge of your emotional attachments. I want you to take that into consideration before you decide you're still loyal to SHIELD."

Clint can't move; his body is not responding to him. From the sound of running further up the hall, their clandestine hallway meetup is about to get crashed, and Clint needs to move. He needs to think. He needs to respond. He moistens his lips. "I'd rather be dead than work for Hydra," he echoes Hailey's words.

Hand simply nods, and breaks up their meeting. "Agent Lorne, take Agent Beckett and start locking down the hanger. Agents McKay and Hailey you're with me; we're headed toward the east wing situation room. Agent Barton, I want you to be my ghost. Start sweeping for pockets, gauge loyalty and mete responses accordingly. Everyone, if you're not one hundred percent certain someone is still loyal to SHIELD, you cannot trust them."

Clint nods. He's still reeling, but as deeply as her words struck him he's always been good at compartmentalizing. It kind of goes with the territory. He and Lorne share a look, but then everyone's off to do their job.

Having something to do has always helped Clint deal with emotional fallout. He was carrying his bow when he went to get his orders in Hand's office, but he grabs a rifle and a sidearm from a weapons locker before he pulls himself into a ceiling recess and dodges ducts and bundles of wiring as he uses this less travelled path to work his way back to the east wing.

There are dead or injured agents everywhere. It makes something inside Clint burn and cry out, but he doesn’t let himself linger on those thoughts. There's a larger part of him that whispers, _alive, he's alive_ , over and over again like a heartbeat- but he can't let himself think about that either.

Clint clears a couple pockets of Hydra agents; he directs one or two pockets of loyal SHIELD agents toward Hand at the situation room. And a couple he can't determine he zip ties and locks in a storage room, making a note to check on them later when things have calmed down a bit and Hand can either determine their loyalty for herself or transfer them to a more secure holding facility.

He sees McKay a time or two, and the hallways are getting emptier as loyal agents are taking back the facility. Apparently this isn't the case everywhere; Clint rejoins Hand in the situation room for a moment and discovers the news is mostly bad.

Agent Triplett is in the situation room and Clint actually smiles to see him.

"This is Agent Gemma Simmons," he introduces the young woman with him, turning to her to say, "And this is-"

"I know Agent Barton," she says, a little flushed.

She and Trip are standing a little close and Clint raises an eyebrow at them. Trip jumps in defensively, "We've been working together."

Clint nods knowingly. "You gave her the knife test, didn't you?"

Trip shrugs. "Maybe not as hardcore as Agent Hand's fake Hydra initiation, but it works."

"I've got SHIELD 616 rerouted back to the Hub," Hand says. She pauses to eye Clint. "That's Coulson's Bus. Garrett is with him." She folds her arms and announces, "It is a certainty that one of them is the murderer known as the Clairvoyant, and given that Coulson just shot down some of my aircraft he is almost certainly Hydra."

Clint wants to deny her immediately, but his tongue is swollen and unmoving in his mouth.

It's Trip who says, "That doesn't make a lot of sense, ma'am. Wasn't he the one who was captured by the Clairvoyant a few months ago?"

And Agent Simmons comes to Coulson's impassioned defense. "Agent Coulson would never betray SHIELD. He's a good man!" She talks like someone who knows him well, though she is young so it is possible that she defends everything she believes in with the same intensity.

Hand barely looks at them; her attention is all on Clint.

Clint swallows and finds he can speak. "I would have said it was impossible, ma'am. Phil Coulson has always been loyal to SHIELD. But... I don't know. Fury lied to me about him being alive. And he lied to me."

Hand nods. "Coulson _is_ a liar." There is a tight, sardonic half frown pulling the corner of her mouth down. "I have quite a long list of citations. But now is not the time for that." She looks at Clint and seems to come to a decision. "Agent Barton, head toward the hanger and back up Agent Lorne's team. Coulson's plane should be landing within fifteen minutes."

Clint nods, and leaves the room without stopping to think if this is what he wants or not.

 

The hanger section is more disputed than the situation room as far as territory, and Clint meets up with Lorne rather quickly, providing necessary crossfire to get Lorne's team out of a sticky corner. Lorne's team has grown to five individuals, and Clint updates them on Hand's status- and the recently landed commandeered plane with Garrett and Coulson's team on board.

He and Lorne get a moment. "I didn't know you didn't know. About Coulson," Lorne says. "It's available to Level Seven operatives. He died, but he didn't. It's all hush hush, there's not even any rumors of what really happened. I would have told you, but I thought you knew." And Clint grips his shoulder for a moment, because he can't find words. There hasn't been time for him to deal with this information. Not that it really matters, because Coulson's team chews their way out of the plane rather than be cornered, and Clint's a little impressed. Though not surprised.

And it feels strange to say "Coulson's team" and not in any way include himself. Phil has been a part of Clint's life in one way or another for almost as long as he's been at SHIELD. The betrayal of him still being alive is settling in a deeper wound than Clint thought it would. Hand was right- Clint's not exactly SHIELD's biggest fan right now. But Clint's also not going to be joining the dark side anytime soon.

 

Clint's tucked in a corner by an air duct when he sees them. It's Garrett, and some kid Clint doesn't know, and they appear to have captured Phil and... is that Melinda May? Shit, he didn't know she was doing fieldwork again. Though that sort of falls to the wayside because... Well, Phil looks like shit, so some of Clint's ire dies because the man really looks like someone who's been dragged back from the dead. And his voice... Clint wants to close his eyes for a moment and savor because that's something he never thought he'd hear again, but he's got a job to do. The fake prisoner shtick gets them into the control room, but some of these people are likely Hydra. Clint hopes to god it isn't Phil, but this Clairvoyant's got to be someone.

Apparently Phil and Garrett agree with him, because they're discussing the topic of the Clairvoyant as well, though their main suspect is Hand. Garrett's all in favor of putting her down like a mad dog, which Clint would probably not disagree with in principle, but there's a reason Clint never really wanted to be Level Eight and have that sort of responsibility. Clint's eyes are on Phil. God, Phil. He never thought he would see him again, and now he has him in his sights. And because Clint's easing closer and closer, silent and slow, he hears Garrett talk himself into a corner, even as he watches the honest and open look of realization and betrayal pass over Phil's face.

Clint himself is elated. The totality of Phil's feeling of betrayal means that not only is he not the infamous Clairvoyant, he's not Hydra either. Or else he's the damn best actor ever, and Clint's pretty sure he knows Phil better than that. Phil's good at repression, but _generating_ emotion? It's too honest to be fake.

A unit comes tramping in and suddenly not only does Garret have Hydra backup, he starts outing high level Hydra agents with his rambling.

Clint eases into a good position and listens. Fucking Sitwell, and it sounds like Pierce as well- Hydra really does go all the way to the top. Melinda May is looking pissed; the guy Clint doesn't know is called Fitz. Phil... god, Phil just looks betrayed. Clint knows he and Garrett were close, that they came up together.

"Let them have it, and shoot that one in the kneecaps," Garrett says finally, and Clint takes aim and pulls back his bowstring.

The arrow takes Garrett in the shoulder, sending him spinning back to the floor. Phil flinches in shock, his eyes immediately seeking out Clint.

An explosion rocks the room, the lights flickering. Everything descends into chaos as Coulson's team takes on the Hydra agents. Fitz is doing okay; May is kicking ass. Phil is grappling with Garrett. Clint wades in, using his bow as... well, as a bo, and smashes two of the Hydra agents in the head and chest as he fights his way across to Phil. Phil is holding his own, but Garrett is heavier and he fights dirty. Phil has to punch him in his wounded shoulder to get the upper hand, and Clint swings his bow into the side of Garrett's head to send him rolling, then whips it back to shoot another arrow to pin him to the floor.

He turns to Phil, reaching down to grasp his forearm and pull him up from the floor.

"Clint." Phil's voice is breathless with exertion and not a small bit of wonder. He leans in to Clint as Clint raises him to his feet, and for a moment his face is tucked against Clint's neck. For that moment, feeling Phil's breath against the thin skin of his throat, Clint could almost think they were somewhere else, anywhere else.

But they're not, so he leans back and says, "Agent Coulson. You're looking less dead than last reported."

And that open look on Phil's face, the one reaching toward him, shutters closed. "I'm sorry," is all he says. His hand lingers for a moment on Clint's arm. "I can explain," he says, though his voice wavers, as if he's not sure there's really an explanation.

But Clint gives him a soft brush of fingers along his inner arm and nods, because he might be fucking pissed but he's not going to cut this off when he's just got it back.

Phil smiles, though it's weak, almost too weak to call a smile. And by then Hand's team is there, and Lorne is bitching about it being a pain in the ass to have to cut Clint's arrowhead out of the floor in order to move Garrett.

Phil moves away from him as the others gather the assorted Hydra members into custody, and he's talking to a young woman, and a man who hears what Phil says and turns away with an almost textbook look of betrayal on his face. Clint figures this is Phil's team and Phil told them about Garrett. Simmons and Trip join them, and Fitz.

Melinda May comes over to Clint. "Barton," she says in greeting. They know each other by reputation more than they've ever worked together, but her voice sounds frayed, exhausted and heartsore; if she's revealing that much in one word Clint can't imagine what she's actually feeling.

"Agent May," he says in return. "I had no idea you were back in the field."

She pulls her lips back in a snarl. "He promised all I had to do was fly the plane. No combat." She looks like there's a lot more that she wants to say but she buries it.

But Clint's watching her, and now that the fighting is over some of his own emotional trauma is coming out to play. He reaches out and seizes May by the arm, his fingers taking hold right above the bandage tinged with blood, and threatening to dig in tighter. "You know. Don't you. Why he isn't dead. Why Fury told us he was."

She glares at him. "Not as much as you think." She turns her face to follow Phil and her words are full of loss. "Fury had me spying on him and now he doesn't trust me. Fury was worried, that he... he might suffer mental degradation." She glances up at Clint quickly. "I don't know why. He's been fine so far, but he's been getting more stressed the more he finds out. Fury said he couldn't know, but I don't know why. If he still trusts you, please stay with him."

Clint nods; that goes without saying. But- "He lied to me," he reminds her.

She shakes her head. "Orders," she says bitterly. And that, Clint thinks, is pretty much that.

He releases May and unbinds her hands; he'd thought it was just part of the prisoner gag, but at this point he's going to assume she's bound because Phil's pissed at her. "If you're loyal to Fury even when he's a shit, then you are definitely not Hydra," he says, and she huffs a humorless laugh at him.

Clint leaves her rubbing her wrists and wanders over to where Phil's team is dealing with the fallout of Garrett being Hydra. He kind of drifts up behind Trip and claps a hand on his shoulder in solidarity.

"He killed my partner, man," Trip says. There are almost tears in his eyes, and Clint doesn't know what to say. He's never been on this side of betrayal. Or maybe he has- he was betrayed by Loki in the same way, not that he trusted, but that he was forced to work toward something he knew he didn't want.

"I'm sorry," Clint says.

Clint can hear Trip grinding his jaw before he slams his fist into the wall behind them. Clint squeezes the hand he has on Trip's shoulder.

"Thanks man." Trip says. "For not being a Nazi. I don't know if I could handle that today, too."

Clint grins. "Of course you could. But you're welcome anyway. You know it was all because of you that I turned them down. They were all, you want to join Hydra, and I said, no, Trip says I can't."

Trip laughs, and though it's only a half-hearted attempt Clint'll take it. Simmons smiles at him thankfully, and Fitz is looking at him with a combination of belligerence and worshipfulness that Clint is happy to sidestep as he comes around to where Phil is standing with the young woman Clint doesn't know.

Phil saw him with Trip and he smiles, slightly, the way he used to when they were there for each other on a mission, but then he remembers something else and the smile vanishes off his face like smoke. "Skye, this is Agent Clint Barton." Phil gestures vaguely between him and the young woman, and then to the tall man with the storm cloud for a face who is glowering behind them. "Barton, Agent Skye and Agent Ward."

And Clint does a double take. "No shit. Grant Ward? I've heard about you, man." The glowering only intensifies and Clint waves a hand in surrender. "Sorry, not the time, I know. Trip mentioned that you also trained with Garrett."

Phil clears his throat and extricates himself with an aplomb Clint feels he could have only really mastered after _years_ of fielding Clint's asinine remarks.

Skye smiles at Clint slightly awkwardly. "So, I'm really impressed to be meeting an actual Avenger, but it's kind of overshadowed by the rest of today."

Clint nods sagely. "It's been a bit of a bummer day, though I've been told that my presence livens up any occasion." He frowns. "Of course it was a fortune cookie that told me that, so I guess take it or leave it."

She laughs, though it's a little damp. Ward doesn't speak, instead turning to stalk down the hallway toward where the Hydra prisoners are being held.

Clint doesn't like the guy. He remembers something Jackson said about Ward having the personality of Wonder Bread- then he remembers that Jackson was Hydra and he frowns.

"He's just really," Skye starts off apologizing, then sighs and says more softly, "not dealing with this well."

"I can't think of anyone who is, really."

She smiles up at him, and it's more of a real smile this time.

Hand gets on the base wide PA. "Agents of SHIELD, I am pleased to announce that we have retaken every section of the Hub. Everyone who hasn't already should seek any medical attention that they require. We are attempting to establish communication with other bases and will be announcing organization wide status in the main situation room at 0600. It is recommended that all personnel not posted to stations retire to quarters and take what rest you can until that time. Hand out."

"We should get some sleep," Skye says, and Clint turns to see that she's talking to Fitz and they’re both looking back down the hall for Ward. "While we can."

"Good idea," Phil says. He smiles at Skye, a soft, warm gesture that has Clint's warning bells all ringing. "Okay everyone, take some downtime. When we find out our situation in the morning we will be heading out. May," and Clint just notices that May has joined them, "make sure the Bus is ready to go." He doesn't look at her- he doesn't even acknowledge Clint- and he walks off down the hall.

May smiles sadly at Clint. Clint raises an eyebrow; he doesn't let go of things once they're in his sights and it's going to take a lot more than Phil being pissy to scare him off. He wants some answers, and he thinks he deserves them.

 

Clint trails Phil to the Bus. Simmons and Trip have rooms on base; Fitz is with May checking on the mechanics of the Bus; Clint has no idea where Skye and Ward are.

It's easier than it should be to follow Phil right up to his door- Clint lets his fingers trail along Lola's hood as he passes the car in the bay- and then knock at that door. Phil opens it, apparently expecting anyone else because he looks a little shocked to see Clint.

"Come in," he says, but he says it like a funeral notice.

Clint steps in the door. "So. You're not dead." He figures that's a good place to start.

Phil looks up at him. He opens his mouth and his jaw works, but nothing comes out for a moment.

"Phil?" Clint says worriedly, raising a hand to cup Phil's cheek.

And Phil turns into it, his breath hot and fast against Clint's palm. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he told you that until after, and then he said you were on a mission, deep cover, and then he had me busy running a new crew, and I wanted to call you, but then I started figuring out that they did something to me," his breath shudders, and Clint steps in closer. "They did something to me, and _no one_ will tell me what it was. Fury thinks I'm going insane, or that I will at the drop of a hat, and I don't even know if I am who I was before... before I was dead." His eyes are staring desperately into Clint's, and it rocks Clint a little; Phil was always so grounded, he took whatever Clint and Nat could throw at him.

But, when Clint thinks about it, it's familiar, too. He remembers Phil terse and demanding when information was withheld from him, and he remembers Phil red-eyed and wild that night it took them eighteen hours to reestablish contact with Natasha after the Seville op went pear-shaped. Clint takes a deep breath. "After approximately five hours of observation, sir, I can report that everything I've seen correlates to previously observed behaviors of one Agent Phil Coulson."

Phil looks at him with an almost mad look in his eyes, and before Clint is even fully comprehensive of the fact Phil has kissed him.

It's probably the most awkward kiss they've shared- except for that one time when Clint's face was still mostly paralyzed- and Clint runs his hands through Phil's hair, guiding him from desperation into a slower, more methodical exploration. And he feels Phil stop trembling against him. Finally, Phil breaks the kiss to lean his forehead against Clint's. They stay that way for a moment, breathing each other's breath, and Phil says, "Thank you."

Clint grins, but it's softer than usual, and he's stroking his thumb along the line of short hairs at the back of Phil's neck. "It's my job, boss."

The last time they saw each other was... shit, it was the underground base, babysitting the Tesseract, wasn't it? It feels so long ago- the other side of a lifetime of regret for Clint. And for Phil too he's thinking. He's eased Phil's jacket off and he has one hand pressed reassuringly to Phil's shoulder, and through the thin fabric of his shirt Clint can feel ridges of scar tissue.

When Phil realizes what Clint's doing, he freezes up and pulls away. His eyes are slightly manic. "They used some sort of alien tissue to bring me back," he says, the words coming out of nowhere, but Clint figures that's the kind of thing that's actually connected to everything. "I don't know how, or why. Fury..." He pauses. "Fury's dead."

Which Clint thinks he remembers Garrett gloating about, but it didn't really register. "Shit."

"I can't find out who was in charge of the project. Fury was my last hope."

"Hey." Clint reaches out to guide Phil's eyes back to him. "I don't know why Fury was yanking us around, but Phil- I'm here. I'll tell you when you're being you, and I'll let you know when you're acting crazy, and I'll put a bullet in your head if that's what you need in the end." He cups Phil's face in his hands. "Fuck Fury. Phil, you know I can do it."

Phil shakes his head, but he says, "My hero," with the appropriate amount of sarcasm in his tone and Clint grins.

"You're not crazy," Clint tells him, kissing him softly. "But May said that's what Fury was worried about, and if it happens I won't hesitate. I'll stop you before you hurt anyone."

Phil tenses. "You talked to May." His eyes get a little shifty, and Clint guides them back to him.

"I'm not working for Fury. I kind of hate his guts right now, for lying to me." He brushes a thumb over Phil's bottom lip. "Though maybe I'm kind of glad, too." And the yearning look in Phil's eyes answers his. "But there is no way I'm ever lying to you about anything. Orders be damned."

Phil huffs a laugh. "That's not really an attitude we should be fostering at SHIELD."

Clint kisses his temple. "Who's fostering?"

"I am. I said much the same thing to Skye."

Clint grins. "Yes, I did see your fosterling. She looks special."

Phil grins right back, a truly warm expression that has been rare in this conversation. "You have no idea."

"See, you're still the same, Phil. You're finding the lost souls and smoothing their rough edges." Phil leans into him and Clint thinks they've talked enough. He brushes his fingers along Phil's chin. "Get some rest."

Phil reaches for his wrist. "Don't want to be alone."

"Who said I was going anywhere?" Clint eases Phil down on the narrow cot, pulling off his shoes and loosening his belt. He runs his hands all up and down Phil's body, quietly reassuring himself that Phil's _actually_ there. Phil reaches for him with the same wonder.

 

Clint's up by 0400. After a long while of just watching Phil, he eases him out of a deep sleep in the best way he knows how.

Phil seems shocked to wake up to Clint's lips on his throat. "I thought it was a dream," he says, voice warm and muffled as he curls around Clint and murmurs the words into his hair.

"No, sir," Clint says mildly. "I don't do dreams." He moves up to claim Phil's lips for a long moment before he adds, "Unfortunately none of that shit about Hydra was a dream either."

"Hmm." Phil is running his hand through Clint's hair, but he's distracted, thinking.

Clint grins. "Already at work, Phil? You're not even dressed yet."

Phil huffs a soft laugh. "You know me," he says, but there's something reaching in the words, and Clint remembers that Phil's not even confident that he knows himself right now.

"I know you," Clint affirms. He leans back, pulling Phil up from the narrow cot and to his feet. "Go wash up. Agent Hand expects us within the hour."

Phil looks at him searchingly again and leans in for another kiss before he stands and moves to the head.

Clint already washed up before he woke Phil, so he's the one standing by the door when there's a soft knock. Without really thinking about it, he answers.

It's Skye. She gives him a double take, with a pointed second look which affirms that A) she knows what he's doing there and, B) she's protective as shit of Phil.

Clint smiles at her genuinely. "Coulson's just up." He jerks his head toward the facilities and she nods.

Skye eyes him and when she talks her voice is low, obviously not intended for Phil to hear. "I wondered. If he had someone he cared about." Clint raises an eyebrow at her and she continues undaunted, "Someone who cared about _him_ , too."

"Yeah," Clint says. "He does." And he taps her on her shoulder. "He's got you."

She flushes. "You don't even know me."

"Oh, please. I know he picked you. He stood up for you when SHIELD didn't want to take a chance on you. He gave you that look when you were thinking it maybe wasn't worth it. And he stood by you when the shit hit the fan."

The look on Skye's face tells him he's hit all the notes with the accuracy he'd expected, but that there's something more to it as well. "He did the same for you," she says, and there's a question under it, a desire to trust him with a secret.

Clint shrugs. "Sure," he says, because he doesn't need to explain himself to her, and he needs to put some distance back in there if she's about to start spilling dangerous secrets. "Just don't ever let Natasha catch you thinking that nobody loves him."

"Nata... Romanoff?" She gives a descent attempt at swallowing her own tongue and goes a little white under her blush. "Is she going to show up? Because I'm not sure I can handle more Avengers showing up."

Clint claps her on the shoulder. Phil's just stepped back in the room and he's watching Clint and Skye like he's wondering if this could get dangerous, so Clint just says, "Sure you can," and steps back.

"AC," Skye greets Phil, and he smiles at her, his expression soft and warm but underneath Clint can feel the same current of secrets almost spoken and he knows that there is something between them that he doesn't know. Skye says diffidently, "Simmons had some questions, before Hand reassigns us or anything."

Phil's eyebrow goes up. "Hand thinks she can reassign my team?" His voice is deceptively mild.

Skye shakes her head. "No, it's just Simmons worrying." She takes a deep breath, glances at Clint, and steps around what she was going to say to start with, "Simmons is concerned about Agent Weaver at the Academy. She wants us to go and make sure the Academy is secure as our next priority. She's concerned that Agent Hand doesn’t share this priority."

Phil nods. Clint remembers the passionate Simmons and he's pretty sure Skye's words are carefully chosen.

"Her concern is noted," Phil says.

Skye nods. She shoots Phil a significant look.

Phil takes a deep breath. "Barton," he says. "Please make sure FitzSimmons make it to Hand's meeting."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, and he leaves. He could be an ass and point out that technically Phil isn't _his_ superior, or that Simmons fucking knows the way to Hand's office and if Fitz doesn't she can damn well show him, but he knows it's just an excuse to get rid of him, so he doesn't mind.

The base has gotten massively more subdued in the past few hours. Clint would guess that the information about Hydra is finally settling in. He locates FitzSimmons- a not unclever naming convention- in the lab part of the Bus, arguing about something too multisyllabic for him to care about. Trip is loitering in the corner, laughing at them behind his hand, so Clint slides in beside him to watch for a minute.

"You guys know Hand's meeting starts in twenty," he manages to interject during a lull, and leaves it to Trip to herd them toward the situation room. He casts around a bit, looking for May, but he can't find her. He does find the tall, dark storm cloud that occasionally answers to Ward hanging around outside the Bus. Clint assumes that he came with Skye; the two of them seem to be an item though it's hard to tell. He certainly doesn't learn anything about it from Ward who frowns at him and goes back to angrily fixing the hole in the bottom of the plane.

So, Clint ventures out further. He runs into Lorne on his way to the commissary in search of coffee, and they exchange a wealth of information in a glance. _See stormy guy_ , Clint wants to say as he breathes in the steam of his coffee, _that's how you talk to a guy without talking. Amateur._ But it's not his fault that Ward got betrayed and isn't taking it well. Not so long ago there were several times when it _was_ Clint's fault, but Phil is alive, and so everything else kind of fades to a place where it's less horrible.

 

Clint shows up to the situation room just as Phil is approaching from the other side of the hall, Skye and Ward in tow. Clint passes the newly filled coffee mug he's holding to Phil, who accepts it without a pause. It earns him another black look from Ward, but Skye seems amused.

Hand gets right down to business. "There are several locations with which we have been unable to reestablish contact. Hydra has taken the East African Headquarters and the Treehouse, that we know of. Fortunately, Captain America was able to defeat the main Hydra operatives at the Triskelion. I've been reviewing the formerly covert files Black Widow released and apparently we should also be thankful that Project Insight was blown out of the sky by an assorted group of Avengers." Hand has to pause for scattered applause. Clint's glad to have word on Nat; he finally put out a feeler and it calms his worry to hear that she hasn't responded because she's been busy.

"For the moment," Hand says, "I myself will be heading to the Fridge. The facility is secure, and I'll be transporting Garrett to the smallest cell in the Icebox. Agent Coulson, you have command of the Hub."

Phil nods. "It would benefit command structure if we promoted eligible agents to fill any holes left by... recent events. I've been reviewing files."

"I agree," Hand says. "And I leave it in your hands for the time being, any promotions above Level Seven to be reviewed at my convenience."

Coulson nods, satisfied.

"Ma'am." Agent Ward steps out and gives Hand the sad eyes of the betrayed. "I'd like to go with you to the Fridge. I'd like to turn the key on Garrett's cell myself."

Hand regards him levelly. "While I understand the betrayal you must be feeling, I do believe you're still awaiting a review board, Agent Ward. You are confined to base until the issue of your shooting an unarmed suspect is resolved."

Ward blinks, stymied. "Ma'am, I believe we have larger concerns at the moment."

Hand locks her eyes on him. "Order is my concern, Agent Ward. Just because Hydra decided that the rules do not apply to them does not mean that I will be following suit. Agent Coulson," she turns away from Ward. "Pick up the pieces of the Hub, as you can. We may be the highest ranking SHIELD agents left."

Phil nods, like it's no big deal, and turns to his team. "Agent Triplett, I'd like you to take FitzSimmons to the Academy." Simmon's smile is blinding. "We need to make sure that location is secure. Agent Beckett will bring a team to back you up. Agent Shaw, I would like you to go with Hand to lend support at the Fridge." Phil looks to Hand for confirmation and Hand nods amiably. "Agent Lorne, you are in charge of maintaining Hub security." That takes care of most everyone. Clint hangs in the background, pretending not to notice that Phil is pretending to ignore him. Finally, Phil turns to him. "Barton, find Agent May."

Clint looks around and notices that May still isn't anywhere. "Copy." He moves out, leaving Phil to deal with the frustrated Ward. Skye is looking at the far wall and trying so hard to control her expression that Clint can't tell what she's trying to hide.

 

Clint clears the base twice before he reports back. "Agent May is gone."

Phil is sitting in Hand's office and he looks up from the report he's reading. His expression is controlled.

Clint wouldn't be in May's shoes for the world. "Agent Weir reports that she saw Agent May get into a transport and drive off base, claiming to be on business for you, sir."

Phil takes in the words and sits for a moment. Eventually he says, "Dismissed," in that mild tone of voice that makes Clint's hair stand on end.

Clint leaves the office, but SHIELD is just his day job; orders that countermand his desires only get followed to the letter. He sneaks through the back hallway when Hailey comes in to give her report and slips between two file cabinets where he has a good view of Phil sitting at the desk.

It takes about an hour before Phil notices him.

"Agent Barton." He levels a cold look at Clint.

"I would say you're getting sloppy," Clint chides, "but I know you're worried about May."

Phil's face darkens and Clint braces himself to have this out. But Phil inhales and sidesteps it. "Barton, I'm glad you're here. I need you to go to the Sandbox and help lock down that location in Agent Blake's absence."

"No, sir."

Phil stops and looks at him. "What?"

"I said, 'No, sir,'" Clint repeats.

Phil is watching him. "Agent Barton," he begins, and Clint cuts in.

"I'm not leaving you alone." That's not really what he means and Clint takes advantage of Phil's momentary silence to take a deep breath. "I mean, I'm not leaving you without someone to watch your back. Someone _I_ trust." And Natasha still hasn't answered his attempt at contact, so Clint's getting a little worried again. "You can order me to do something else and I'll quit. You can try to have people throw me out, but it'll cost you more than you can afford to lose." Phil's expression is getting a little pugilistic and Clint finishes with, "SHIELD is important to me, but not as important as you."

Phil swallows and looks away. "We can't have agents who place other priorities above SHIELD. That's how Hydra gets a foothold."

"Well, I guess if SHIELD can't agree with my priorities I'll have to quit." But he doesn't really want to, so he tries to reason it out in a way that makes sense to Phil. "Fury's dead. The Council's dead. Pierce is evil. Hill's quit. SHIELD needs _you_ , Phil. I think you need someone to have your back."

Phil leans back in his chair, his head tilted back, and there's something shiny in the corner of his eye, but Clint doesn't comment and finally Phil says, "Your concern is duly noted, Agent. And I... agree that until command structure can be filled out with trustworthy and experienced agents, the existing structure should be... protected." He takes a deep breath. "Please have Agents Weir and Tyler report to me."

"Yes, sir," Clint says, and he walks out of the office.

He finds Hailey in the hall and tells her to pass on the messages while he lingers in the situation room where he leans over Lorne's station to review security measures. He's hovering, so he's there when Weir comes out to reveal that Phil promoted her to Level Seven and is sending her and Tyler to the Sandbox.

Clint congratulates himself on communicating his point, and starts to inventory his own backup. He finally got a quick response from Nat; she's fine, she and Pepper are in DC. He hasn't seen Skye around and he wonders where she is.

He does see Ward awhile later. He goes into the office to talk to Phil privately. Clint's watching them surreptitiously- or, as much as he can when Ward keeps looking over at him. Phil is looking more and more annoyed the longer the conversation goes on, and finally he shakes his head, Ward nods curtly and then walks out.

 

Late in the day, Hand calls to report that the Fridge is secure. Phil takes the call in the office and the two of them talk for about two hours.

Phil reports to Clint and Lorne the gist of what Hand says, then orders a shift change. They're understaffed but they can't stay awake for twenty-four hours through sheer force of will. Of course Phil doesn't apply that to himself, and he goes back into the office and picks up the phone.

Skye finally turns up, sidling into the room to appear next to Clint. Clint's attention is on Phil's door and all the ways he's going to blow it up and drag Phil to bed, so he doesn't notice her until she says, "I don't think an explosion is going to further your cause."

Clint doesn't jump. He doesn't. But he got less sleep than Phil did last night and he's tired. He counts to ten before he turns to look at Skye. "First of all, never let Stark hear you say that. Second of all, how do you know I'm thinking about explosions?"

She twitches. "Are you messing with me? Please stop making me think more Avengers are going to start showing up. And _I'm_ certainly not clairvoyant." She pauses, her eyes directed toward Phil's office. "Maybe we're just thinking the same thing."

She's obviously not thinking about explosions, so he's going to assume making Phil take it easy for _five goddamn minutes_ is their common thought thread. "Drug his coffee," he suggests.

She rolls her eyes. "Are you serious? Do you think I was born yesterday? AC is way too suspicious to fall for that." She shifts her weight, like she's about to walk over and start throwing it around.

Clint rests a hand on her shoulder. "I'll do it."

Her expression darkens. "Because you think I can't handle it," she challenges.

"Not at all." He squeezes her shoulder. "It's about knowing your strengths and the strengths of your teammates. My greatest strength is being obstinate."

She snorts. "I believe it."

"And," Clint hesitates but continues, "you've got other people to worry about. Let me take Coulson."

She chews the inside of her cheek for a moment. "Ward's not... He's angry, which I get. And he's frustrated, because he can't do anything about it. I just... I don't know how to help him."

Clint nods. "Let's start with sleep. Drug his coffee," he offers again.

Skye actually laughs. "It might work on Ward," she says, amused.

The easy way she smiles, the way she shifts so quickly toward the light, makes Clint put his arm around her and hold her close for a moment. She stiffens at the familiarity of his touch. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm tired, too. Just... I see why Coulson thinks you're special."

Her eyes are wide. "I've never had an Avenger say that I'm special," she says in her soft, laughing voice.

Clint starts walking toward Phil's office. "Sure you have," he tells her, and he leaves it there and lets her work through it.

Clint pushes the door open and leans into the office.

Phil sets down the phone and looks up. "Get some rest, Agent Barton."

"No, sir," he replies mildly.

Phil looks up at him, exasperation warring with weariness on his face. "Is there something else you needed, Agent?"

"Not me. Sir." And he tries to give Phil the _you know that we both know what you did, now just admit it_ face that always works so well for Nat, but it doesn't really land the same way.

Phil sighs. He looks tired, more than just physically. Clint wonders if he's seen a doctor. Should a guy who was dead really be putting in a fourteen-hour day, or maybe take it a bit easier? Fury seemed to think he was ready for active duty, what with giving him another team, but Fury was also stacking the deck with his spy so Clint thinks his hovering is maybe not out of bounds. And Phil must agree with him somewhat because he does stand from the desk and walk over. He looks right at Clint, a long, slow memorizing look. When he does speak his voice is a mere whisper. "Looks like I'll be calling it a night, Agent Barton."

Clint snorts. "If you'd done anything other than sit at that desk or pace behind it for thirteen of the last fourteen hours I'd be less worried." Phil's eyes flicker over Clint's face in sudden hesitation, and Clint adds, "Not that I'm the least bit surprised, sir. You never could leave anything unfinished. Come on." He stands up from where he's leaning on the door and pulls Phil after him without even touching him. "Let's get you some dinner."

Skye follows them to the commissary and sits with Phil while Clint goes to get them food; he likes her, so he brings a plate for Skye as well. Watching the two of them together he knows they're talking about their secret again, and he makes sure he walks back toward them fully in Skye's eye line so she can clam up before he gets too close.

But Clint's attempt at distance is apparently for naught, because after Phil's eaten most of his meal he leans back and looks at Clint. "You know, don't you?"

Clint forks a pea. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"What they did to me," Phil says, and Clint's about to protest because he _doesn't_ know, but Phil continues, "I did it to Skye."

Skye makes a soft sound of protest under her breath, but the commissary is just full enough, their voices just even enough, that no one is paying the slightest attention.

Clint blinks, and misses the next pea. He forks it on the second try and sits there looking at it for a moment. "You died?" he asks Skye.

"Was dying," she says through her teeth. Her eyes on Phil seem to be asking him if this is a good idea even though the cat's already out of the bag. "He hunted down-" Someone sits at the table next to them and Skye stops talking. "AC is misrepresenting the basic facts," she continues, the upbeat of her words sounding forced which is rare. "It is not the same. And he didn't _know_." She glares at Phil.

Clint kind of wishes that Phil hadn't decided to talk about this somewhere that wasn't private, because he could do better with some more specifics, but he gets the gist. "He's blaming himself for something that isn't his fault? Agent Coulson, I know an excellent psychiatrist in DC who can help you with that."

Phil shoots him a dark look, that almost immediately begins to morph into something contrite. Clint flicks his last pea at Phil's face and pretends not to notice when Skye giggles.

The three of them walk back to the Bus, and Clint would make some comment about how there are surely quarters on base that could accommodate them, but he likes the idea of familiar territory- and it's even more familiar for Phil and Skye. Skye peels off, and Clint follows Phil back to his room.

Phil seems to hesitate a moment before he holds the door open for Clint, giving him the room to follow in. The room isn't big and together they take up almost all of the space.

Clint refamiliarizes himself with the room- he's not double-checking for bugs, why do you ask?- and uses the head before he returns to where Phil is still standing. Phil's holding something in his hand; it catches the light and Clint realizes it's Phil's SHIELD badge.

"Fury gave this to me," he says, voice low.

Clint leans into him. "I know."

Phil turns to him and their eyes meet. They're so close they're breathing the same air, and Clint leans in until their lips touch. He doesn't press for more because it's not about seduction. It's an offer of comfort, an acknowledgement that not _everything_ has changed. "I'm here," Clint murmurs.

"I know," Phil says, and his hands come up, one to cup Clint's chin and guide him into deepening the kiss, the other at the back of his neck. It's a sort of mirror to Clint's actions last night, but for all that they're both just as exhausted and heartsore as they were then, there's something more seeking in Phil's kiss. Clint responds to the question with an offer. Soon they're laid on top of each other on the narrow bed, Clint's lips insistent on Phil's neck and Phil's fingers making short work of Clint's belt.

Clint is so intent on forgetting where they are that he wraps a hand firmly around Phil's shoulder as he tries to leverage himself into a position that will allow him to rub more of himself against Phil. Clint barely registers the feeling of scar tissue under his fingertips through the thin material of Phil's shirt, but Phil freezes up on him, standing as he pulls away, his eyes seeking Clint's desperately.

"It's not pretty," Phil says in the sudden quiet. His voice is ragged.

Clint barely knows what to say to that. _Pretty_ is not a word that he's ever thought in conjunction with their relationship. He can't think of words, so he just pulls Phil closer and starts methodically unbuttoning his shirt before pushing it off his shoulders and stripping his undershirt up over his head. Phil is staring fixedly at some point over Clint's shoulder so Clint takes the opportunity to look. The light is low, but Clint's got good eyes.

The unfamiliarity of it is probably what's most striking about it. Clint thought he had a good handle on what Phil's body looked like, but now there's a large, angry, red scar twisting its way over his heart. Clint leans forward, his fingers rising to touch, but Phil tenses slightly and Clint diverts- letting his fingers skim from Phil's collarbone over the top of his shoulder and down the outside of his arm. "Does it hurt?" he asks, and Phil's expression closes off. Clint sighs. "I mean, if I touch you, will it hurt you?"

Phil's eyes dart to him and he swallows. "No."

So Clint presses his hand to Phil's heart. He can feel it beating. He can feel Phil's breath suddenly catch, his own hand rising to cover Clint's. "You don't..." and it's a question, but there's nothing further.

"Phil." Clint rests his forehead against Phil's and breathes slow, measured breaths until Phil matches him. "You're here. You're you, and you're here. That's all I've wanted for... months."

Phil makes a small noise of disbelief, but Clint kisses him. He hooks his leg around Phil when he tries to pull away and holds him close, his other hand reaching for Phil's and pulling his arm around him. Clint kisses him fiercely, and he feels Phil respond, the arm around his waist pulling tight and seeking under clothing.

Phil's not the only one with fun new scars, and as he strips Clint's shirt off he stops and runs his hand over the lines that mar Clint's side. His touch is light enough to tickle, and Clint shivers, leaning more heavily into the touch. "More," he whispers, and Phil gives him more.

It's a slow exploration, and they should definitely be getting sleep instead, but there is a healing in this as well, Clint thinks. Phil is coming back to life under his fingers, under his mouth, and Clint would trade a lot of things to be able to keep this.

 

 

When Clint gets out of the shower the next morning, he finds Phil staring at Clint's phone, a look of utter loss and betrayal on his face.

Clint immediately thinks something's happened to Nat. "What is it?" He rushes over and seizes the phone.

Phil jerks away from him and pushes him away, throwing Clint back against the opposite wall with enough force that Clint is momentarily stunned. But Phil relinquished the phone, so Clint looks at it. It's just the message screen with his feeler - _what're you drinking tonight?_ \- followed by Nat's response: _Enjoying a Sea Breeze in Tahiti with Ramone._

"What is it?" Clint repeats. "Did she send something else? Is she okay?"

 Phil is staring at him now, the betrayal writ large on his face. "What do you know about TAHITI?" he asks, and his voice is shaking.

Clint's a little worried. "Phil?" He reaches for the other man.

Phil throws him to the floor and has Clint's arm twisted up behind him. "What do you know?" he demands more loudly.

"Fuck," Clint grits out. "It doesn't mean anything, Phil! The location is just a blind. Even number of letters means she's safe, odd number means organize extraction. Sea Breeze means DC, Ramone is Pepper. It's a code. Natasha's code. It doesn't mean anything." He feels Phil slowly release him only to slowly collapse on top of him, breathing too quickly against the back of Clint's neck.

"Swear to me," he whispers.

Clint reaches blindly for Phil's hand. It's the right one, which he's glad about, and he takes it and traces a faint scar that runs from the base of Phil's thumb toward the underside of his wrist. "I swear it. Phil, I wouldn't lie to you." He thinks about it and adds, "I've never lied to you. I'm pretty sure. I don't remember it if I did."

In the end he feels the declaration is somewhat weakened, but Phil seems to accept it. He pulls Clint up off of the floor and they look at each other for a long moment before Clint says hesitantly, "Can I ask what the significance of Tahiti is?"

Phil shudders and leans against him. "It... was the code name of the project. Whatever they did to me." He pauses, as if searching for words, but ends up parroting, "Tahiti is a magical place." He shudders more fully, his hands clenching, eyes pressed shut.

"Hey, hey." Clint pulls his face close and kisses him. "Think about something else. Think about Belgrade, okay? Snow and slush, the sky so grey I wanted to blow something up just for some color. Come on."

"Belgrade?" And now Phil sounds annoyed. "That op was a mess from start to finish."

"Okay, bad choice." Clint kisses his neck and murmurs, "I just got back from Alaska the other day. You wouldn't believe the complete lack of sandy beaches they have in Alaska."

Phil huffs but his hands have stopped spasming and are laid against Clint's back. He leans onto Clint's shoulder. Clint holds him for what feels like a long time, before he eventually reaches for the phone. "I'm going to tell Natasha. About you."

Phil turns to look at the phone but he doesn't speak as Clint types. _Sounds like a bust to me. Alaska is where it's at. Found me a guy who makes a Pina Colada that you wouldn't believe._ When he's done he hands the phone to Phil.

Phil reads the message. "I thought drinks were codes for places."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Proper nouns that we haven't otherwise coded. The actual locations are always blinds."

Phil takes a deep breath and hits the send.

Clint kisses him. His hands are guiding Phil into a deeper kiss when the phone pings.

"Oh for... _I_ don't hear back from her for over twenty-four hours but for _you_ she texts back immediately." And he's griping just to see if he can get a smile out of Phil, but Phil does look really touched and Clint doesn't mind because it's true that Nat cares about him just as much and Phil probably needs to hear it.

 _Really?_ is all it says.

 _Hand to god,_ Clint sends back. _You make it with some Famous Nate's local. Super hush hush recipe._

 _The last guy who sold me some Famous Nate's stiffed me,_ she says. Then asks, _In Alaska, you say?_

"She wants me to confirm we're safe," Clint says. Phil makes a derisive sound. Clint chuckles. "Yeah, yeah, I know, 'go teach your grandmother to suck eggs.'" He doesn't want to reuse the Tahiti location after Phil's reaction, so he sends back, _Guy said you could get one in Hawaii if you're in the islands._

 _That's good to hear._ After a long wait, she sends, _It's really good to hear from you._ Another pause and she finishes with, _We're headed out soon, check out that tip._

Clint looks over at Phil. _You've gotta see it to believe it._

 _You've always been a sucker for coconut._ Phil snorts, and Clint has to grin. Nat adds, _FYI, Ramone's ex has some new friends in town._

Clint frowns and guesses, _Monty? Or Yasmine's "friends"?_

 _No, the other one._ There's a long interlude, and Clint imagines Nat trying to translate whatever is going on into code. _It's kind of like the ex's pals' ex. Don't worry about it, I'll call you when we get to Hawaii._

Clint frowns. _Should I get a bottle of Stoli to share?_

Natasha responds, _It wouldn't hurt. ;)_

"Okay, I'm totally confused," Phil admits.

Clint tries to work through it. "'Ramone's ex' is Stark, and she says it's not Rhodes or Banner, so it must be some other Avengers related business. Maybe Rogers is up to something."

Phil actually smiles. "Who's 'Yasmine'?"

Clint grins. "Banner." He shakes his head. "We were in Tunisia; it made sense when we set it up. And Monty is Rhodes, from Romeo Montague."

Phil nods. "Anyone else you have cute names for?" He leans in a bit and Clint wonders what he's fishing for; he already knows they don't talk about him.

"Just stuff we talk about a lot. If we're talking about Avengers stuff she usually says she's drinking Stoli. Um, Manhattan means she's in Malibu, which is confusing I guess because it's a drink and a place." He turns to Phil, and he knows that Phil already knows, but he wants to explain, so he says, "We don't talk about you. I... She tried, at first, but I just shut her down. I was so..."

Phil kisses him. "I'm sorry." His hands are warm on Clint's face.

"You're here." Clint leans in and presses his nose against Phil's jaw until it hurts. "So, it's better now."

 

While Phil's in the shower, Clint goes back to the phone. There's something niggling him about one of Nat's lines- _The last guy who sold me some Famous Nate's stiffed me._ He's wondering if she's trying to say something more than that she knows that Fury lied to them about Phil.

Phil comes over and kisses his shoulder, glancing at the phone. "What it is?"

"I don't want to say." Clint mulls it over. "I could be grabbing at straws here, but... I think Fury might still be alive."

Phil goes still behind him. "Why?"

He points to Nat's message. "See, she could just mean that Fury lied to us about you. But she says the 'last guy'- the last time she saw Fury?" He shrugs. "I didn't want to say, but I wanted to tell you."

"Thank you." Phil pulls him around to press a kiss to his lips. His hair is still damp from the shower so Clint lets his hands drift lower.

Phil swats him, but his eyes are laughing. "No time for that," he deadpans.

"Phil, I'm wounded, fucking _wounded_." He steals another kiss. "You know, you wouldn't be so hot if you didn't work so damn hard."

Phil smirks at him, his hand cupping Clint's cheek. "'I could not love thee, dear, so much,'" he murmurs, then blushes.

Clint grins. He knows Phil is quoting something, but that doesn't mean he can't give him a hard time about it.

 

They're back in the situation room just before 0600. Lorne is looking ready for a break and he gladly takes the dismissal Phil gives him.

They have a quiet few hours before they get a call from Trip. His team has locked down the Academy. Agent Weaver is alive, and they're securing the location, taking in agents from other, fallen bases. Coulson warns them to be particularly wary of Hydra spies.

"Sir." Clint's sitting at Lorne's screen and he pulls up a surveillance feed. "I think you'll find this interesting."

It's Melinda May. She's driven her vehicle back onto the base and has been stopped by the first patrol. They're making her get out of the vehicle. Phil buzzes the team leader directly and they exchange a few words before Phil finishes with, "Bring her to my office."

Clint raises an eyebrow.

Phil sighs. "She claims to have something for me. Relating to Tahiti."

Clint sits up like a ripple of electricity just ran all down his back. "Oh really? She didn't mention Famous Nate at all did she?"

Phil's smile is grim. "She did not. But we'll see what she has when she gets here."

 

They're in Hand's office, Clint hovering from somewhere just out of May's eye line as she stands before where Phil is seated at the desk; he knows it's pissing her off, but he's here for Phil right now, not her.

May sets a small canister on the desk. "I dug up your grave."

Phil gives her a look, but he takes the canister and unscrews the lid, dropping a USB flash drive into his hand. "And what did you expect to find there?"

"Fury said he buried the Tahiti Project." She shrugs. "it was a hunch."

Phil nods and plugs the flash drive into his computer.

Clint's actually surprised to find out that _Phil_ was the one running the project: researching the possibility of saving a fallen Avenger using alien tissues. Memory replacement and suppression of the process apparently nonnegotiable.

"Huh." Phil looks both poleaxed and nonplussed. "I told Fury to never do this. Why would he not listen?"

And only Phil Coulson could be so blind to his own value. Clint edges around far enough to share a glance of longsuffering with May. "Phil." He rests a hand tentatively on Phil's shoulder. "Why _wouldn't_ he?"

Phil is staring at him, uncomprehending.

May clears her throat. "The important thing is, where do we go from here?"

Phil turns to her and nods. He's got his game face on, the one that means he’s planning three steps ahead. "May, I need you to hold the Hub."

"What?" she asks, startled.

He stands. "I need to find Hill. Intel says she's on the East Coast. She'll know where Fury is."

May stills. "Fury's dead," she says slowly, like maybe Phil hasn't fully absorbed the fact.

Phil nods. "So he is. Agent May, I need you here at the Hub until Hand returns. Maintain contact with Trip's team at the Academy. Agent Lorne will back you up. I'll be taking Barton, Skye, and Ward to go make contact with Hill. We're taking the Bus."

May eyes him, her gaze flickering to Clint for a moment, before she says flatly, "Yes, sir."

Phil turns on his heels and walks out of the office like a man on a mission, and Clint follows him like a hound on a scent, without even a glance for May. Clint would lay odds Phil's going in search of Skye. She took the alien goo also, and though she hasn't undergone any memory suppression related to the procedure she also hasn't evidenced any crazy behaviors, and Clint's not sure how to feel about that. Is she out of the woods, or should they still expect the worst? Is _Phil_ out of the woods by this point? From the information on the drive it seemed like the other subjects evidenced symptoms fairly early on.

Skye's in an empty lab she's appropriated, chatting with Simmons at the Academy. She cuts the call short when she sees Phil's face.

"What is it?" she says as she stands from the desk where she was sitting and comes around it toward them, toward Phil, her posture protective, as if she intends to guard him from whatever is causing the look on his face. Clint thinks he might love her a little bit.

Phil urges her back to a chair and checks to make sure Clint's shut the door. "Skye," he says, his voice trying to be level. "We found out about the GH-325. The program..." He swallows, and tries again to find the words to say it.

"The alien goo makes people crazy," Clint says bluntly. "Everyone they gave it to in the TAHITI project went crazy."

"What?" Skye looked slightly worried, but more determined- like she's pretty sure they can figure out how to not go crazy if they just work on it.

"I'm sorry," Phil says. His face is tragic; he's got a real jones for someone to blame him for something. "I was the one in charge of the program. I should have known better than to give it to you."

"Bullshit," Clint says under his breath, but Phil still hears him. "When you went through the treatment they blocked your memory to keep you from going crazy. There's no way you could have known."

"So, wait," Skye cuts to the more salient point. "Why aren't I crazy already? Because I remember everything. What did we do different?"

"I don't know." Phil raises a hand but lets it drop back to twitch nervously, and Clint would bet money that Phil wants to reach for Skye, check her temperature or something, but he doesn't want to crowd her when he's still jonesing for some blame.

Skye sees through that as well and shoots Phil a glare. "Don't you dare start treating me like I'm made of glass!" She stands, her hands coming down on the desk so hard that she comes close to cracking the surface. She leans back, startled at her own strength, and shoots Clint a worried look.

"I've got you," Clint says. "You won't hurt anyone." He can promise it for her like he did for Phil. He's pretty sure he'd like Skye even if she wasn't Phil's latest hard-luck case.

Skye doesn't look as reassured by that promise as Phil did, and Phil reaches to take her hands, directing her attention back to him. "Clint means well," he assures her and _fuck you dude_ , Clint thinks. "But I had a sudden thought that your... origins might have something to do with your response to the GH-325?"

Skye pauses, taking that in, and it seems to comfort her more. There's no telling with some people.

"I'm taking Barton and headed East to rendezvous with Hill and see if she can shed some light on a few things," Phil says to Skye. "I'd like you and Ward to come with us."

Skye nods absently, like her mind is somewhere else. "Ward'll be glad to do something," she says distantly. "He was annoyed that Hand ordered him confined to base."

Which Clint is just now remembering, but Phil gets a fun little smile as he pulls Skye to her feet. "Hand can't order around my team," he says mildly.

 

Clint's got another frisson of danger crawling up his spine about this mission- maybe it's just cause they're really looking for a dead guy, not Hill; maybe he already knows too many dead things that aren't dead. He's sitting in the cockpit of Coulson's team's Bus running through the preflight prep, and sends off a quick note to Nat. _Headed your way, got a rendezvous in Fiji. Save me some Stoli?_

He gets back, _This is Ramone. The ex took all the Stoli. You'll have to talk to him._

Clint grunts. Stark can be irritating, but Clint's due for some shiny new arrows in any case, and if Hydra has, in all likelihood, taken over the old SHIELD lab then Stark might be his best bet in that department. _I'll take that into consideration._ Clint hesitates, but he thinks he's thought up a code word for Hydra; he'll see if he has to explain it, but he's pretty sure Nat'll get it. _He stock any mezcal?_

There's a long pause, which he's pretty sure is Pepper asking Nat what the fuck he's talking about, but he finally gets the waiting signal that indicates that the person on the other end is typing.

_No worms, gringo._

Clint grins. Sometimes he thinks he and Nat were twins separated at birth, but most of the time he realizes that it’s all him rubbing his twisted sense of humor off onto her.

"What's so funny?" Phil asks from behind him, voice droll.

Clint hands him the phone. "Nat says Stark's not Hydra, in case you were wondering."

Phil's eyebrows go up. "I hadn't wanted to think about it," he says as he hands the phone back. He gets a distant look on his face. "He thinks I'm dead. They all do."

Clint shrugs. "I for one am telling everyone I meet that Nick fucking Fury is a fucking liar."

"Clint." Phil steps closer, his hand settling on Clint's shoulder. "He didn't lie. I was dead. He just didn't keep you updated when my condition changed."

Clint growls, stands, and turns toward Phil, shoving him back against the bulkhead and kissing him. He feels Phil's hand tighten around his shoulder- and Phil would be well within his rights to write him up, for both Clint's actions and his words- but Phil doesn't push him away. They kiss for a long time, until a politely cleared throat reminds them that they're not alone.

Phil puts a hand on Clint's chest, and Clint steps back. He clears his throat. "Agent Barton, remind me to write you up on disciplinary charges when we get back."

Clint grins and sinks back down into the pilot's seat. "Yes, sir."

Skye is standing in the doorway smiling her laughing smile as she looks at Clint. "Just wanted to let you know we're on board, sir," she says to Coulson as she backs out of the doorway.

Ward is coming up behind her and he's looking at Skye so he doesn't notice until he's already halfway through the door that Clint is already in the pilot's seat. "Uh, sorry." He shoots Coulson a look that Clint would call confused but he would admit could also be described as betrayed, though no one who'd seen Ward's post-Garrett-reveal face would use that word now. "I thought you wanted me to fly."

Coulson either doesn't see or deliberately ignores Ward's confusion. "No, I've got another job for you. Come on." He squeezes Clint's shoulder. "Agent Barton, finish your flight checks. I want us airborne in twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir," Clint says mildly, not even hiding the fact that he's watching Phil's ass as he walks away. Skye makes a face at him before she follows the others back to the meeting area.

They're not far from the east coast, but this bird wasn't exactly built for max speed. "'Bus' is right," Clint grouses as he gets the craft into the sky, then pats the console. "Not your fault. You're just a big girl. Need a special hand to take care of you."

He can hear someone on his comm clearing their throat; he'd put his money on it being Ward, and he grins.

"Did you need a private moment, Agent Barton?" Coulson asks.

"No, sir," Clint responds, surprised. "I thought we were all gonna do her."

It's hard to tell over comms, but he's pretty sure Ward is grinding his teeth.

 

The trip gets less fun and settles into routine as they hit altitude and Coulson finishes outlining the mission for everyone. After a half an hour or so, Skye knocks on the cockpit door and holds up the mug of coffee she brought him.

"Bless you, sweet child," Clint says fervently, taking the cup and draining half of it in one go.

Skye rolls her eyes at him and sits in the copilot's chair. Her eyes roam the nav board.

"You know how to fly this Bus?"

She shakes her head. "It was always May's. And it's not like I went to the Academy or anything, to learn how to do things like that." She frowns.

Clint nods. "Do you want to?"

She side-eyes him and grins, pulled out of whatever she was thinking. "Maybe," she allows. "But I've got other things to keep me busy at the moment."

The door shoves open, and if Clint hadn't heard Ward shoving around a few other interior doors on his way up he probably would have jumped through the windshield; hell, if he'd been actually driving the plane instead of checking gauges and babysitting the autopilot he might have crashed them.

Skye does jump, and she turns in her seat. "Ward, what the hell?"

Clint can't see Ward, as the door's behind him, but he can imagine the stink eye he's shooting Skye by the way she tenses and glares it back at him.

"Coulson wants to see you," Ward says shortly.

Skye snorts under her breath, but she gets up. "Talk to you later, Clint," she says as she walks out.

"Mmm," Clint affirms casually as she leaves. The silence is uncomfortable; Clint knows that Ward is still hovering behind him, and Clint lets him stew in his juices for a while before he turns in his seat to look at him. "Is there something you wanted to say?"

Ward's eyes narrow and he's sizing Clint up in a way that makes Clint nostalgic for one of Nat's floor-wiping sessions. "You’re not a part of this team," he says finally. "I'm Skye’s SO."

Clint's eyebrows make a good effort at touching his hairline. "Good for you?” he tries, but Ward’s expression doesn’t clear.

Ward smiles in a way that isn't really a smile. "Just stay away from her."

Clint spreads his hands and turns back to the console wordlessly.

 

At some point during the flight Clint hears subdued yelling, and a few minutes later Skye slips in through the cockpit door.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Her face is red with anger and she's holding her laptop tightly.

Clint gestures openly to the copilot's chair. "I'm falling asleep up here by myself," he says.

Her brows loosed from their tight anger and she grins. "No you're not. You'd never let us down like that." There's something a little pointed about her words, but Clint lets it lie as she slides into the chair, legs crossed on the edge of the nav console, laptop on her lap. "This okay?"

"You're fine," he assures her.

They sit in silence for a while, before Clint asks, "So, what's up?"

Skye looks up from frowning at her laptop, and he flicks his eyes back toward the door to indicate that he heard her and Ward arguing. She sighs. "I... can't talk about it."

Clint nods. "Okay."

Skye sighs again, sounding agitated. "I shouldn't talk about it," she qualifies. "It's gonna blow over, and then it won't be a thing, so..." Clint's piercing her with a look, and she grits her teeth and glares at him. "Ward doesn't trust you," she says eventually. She returns her eyes to her computer screen. "He thinks you aren't part of our team, you shouldn't be here."

Clint lets his eyes drift back to the sky in front of him. Ward's sharp words to him had had a more personal flavor, but he remembers the argument Ward and Phil had in Hand's office the other day, and wonders if that was Ward trying the same argument with Phil that he had with Skye. Clint has a weird sense of Deja vu; he hadn't thought it then, but he wonders now if Fury ever had to deal with people complaining about him, about what he'd done.

"He just doesn't know you," Skye says softly. "When he realizes how much you care about AC, and about us, he'll know that you'd never do anything to-"

"He's right," Clint cuts her off. "He shouldn't trust me. I've done things-" He shakes his head. "He shouldn't trust me," he repeats. Skye's expression is darkening, like she's about to argue for his soul, and he cuts her argument off at the knees. "You're right, too. I would never do anything to hurt Coulson." His eyes are fixed on the nav board. "Not willingly."

"Clint." Skye leans over, resting her hand on his arm. He's pretty sure she's about to spout some long-winded speech about friendship and sunshine, but all she says is, "I trust you."

He shoots her a quick look. "Thanks."

She smiles.

 

They land in New Jersey, about an hour from the City. Of course it's something like two AM, so the drive time is probably even more reasonable.

"Hill's in Manhattan," Phil says. He looks sardonic. "She's with Stark Industries now apparently."

Clint snorts, and waggles his phone back and forth. "Worm free, remember," he says. Skye's giving him a look, like _he_ might be the one in danger of going crazy, but then she ducks her head and focuses on making sure her laptop is secured in her bag before she takes the stairs down, from where they're gathered in the meeting area, to the loading bay.

Phil gives Clint a look like he might be agreeing with Skye, but there's a crinkle of laughter around his eyes. "Ward's plan is to meet her privately at an old SHIELD rendezvous point." He sobers. "Agent Barton, I need you to stay here and make sure we're ready to fly out. We'll need to get back to the Hub quickly."

Clint says, "Yes, sir." He's not particularly happy about the plan, but he can't think of a protest that works at the moment, so he'll let it slide. Clint would rather Phil outed himself to the Avengers because he thinks letting Stark think he's dead is weighing on Phil more than he would admit; he'd had so much fun pulling Stark's chain back when Fury was first kicking around this Avengers idea, and he'd enjoyed knocking around New Mexico with the whole Thor thing, but even Thor must think Phil's dead, though Clint's not really sure where the big guy's at.

Phil eyes him for a moment, but seems to accept that Clint's not going to fight him on this. He nods professionally, and then he's moving back to the rear of the Bus, where Skye and Ward are waiting to drive into the City.

Clint's leaning against one of the clear glass walls in the meeting area, checking his phone before he heads back to the cockpit, when he's surprised by Ward. "Forget something?" he asks, probably snider than he really needs to.

"Yes, actually," Ward says, managing in just two words to make it sound like Clint is responsible for everything wrong with the world.

Clint refrains from rolling his eyes, and he returns his attention to his phone as Ward goes to search the furniture against the walls, obviously looking for something, before coming to the table in the middle of the meeting area, lifting up a stack of folders and setting down some pieces of equipment he must have found in one of the drawers. Clint's waiting for Lorne to message him back. He's not even looking at Ward but he catches a reflection in the screen of his phone, and Clint reacts instinctively.

Ward's right hand comes up around Clint's throat, and there's a knife sinking toward Clint's back, and he'd be out a kidney or have some spinal cord damage if he hadn't thrust his elbow back to intercept the knife, knocking it glancingly aside so that he ends up with a gash along the outside of his arm instead of bleeding into his abdominal cavity or paralyzed. Clint shoves back hard, elbowing Ward in the gut, but he can't see the knife- he's grasping for it, his left hand reaching to pull it from Ward's left hand, but there's blood everywhere making everything slick, and it doesn't matter because his right hand is locked around Ward's hand that's locked around his throat choking the breath out of him.

Clint tries to slam backwards and hit his assailant in the nose, but he does better with kicking the guy in the shin hard enough to elicit a snarl. Clint's got his left hand around Ward's left hand, but there is so much blood that no one can keep hold of the knife and it thumps to the floor. Clint has his right hand desperately trying to break Ward's thumb, to break his hold. Now that the knife is out of play, Clint reaches up with his left hand and boxes Ward in the ear.

Ward snarls again- there could be words involved, Clint's getting a little too fuzzy around the edges to tell- but loses his footing and steps back. His fingers are still like iron bands around Clint's throat, but Clint has room to move. He steps back with Ward, and once they're in motion Clint works with that motion, moving them faster until Ward stumbles. He jerks Clint down with him; they hit and then slide off of the edge of the table, and Clint takes advantage of the gravity to slam his uninjured elbow solidly into Ward's stomach. Ward grunts, and his fingers loosen.

Clint claws his own hand underneath Ward's, and he's gasping for air, and he goes limp for a moment in sheer joy at the existence of air, and Ward turns the tables on him again. Ward's got him pinned to the floor now, and he's reaching for the knife. He snarls, "Can't you go down _quietly_ ," and hey, apparently his wordless snarling did in fact have words to it.

Clint hears someone else’s voice as well; his ears are still ringing with the sound of his own blood flowing, but he's pretty sure it's Skye saying, "Hurry up, Ward, we've gotta go." He can tell the moment she enters the room and sees him, because her voice gets shrill and he can hear her yell for Coulson. Also, she hits Ward in the shoulder with one of the things Ward left on the table. "What the hell is going on?" she yells, and Clint can hear her pulling her gun.

Ward's face undergoes a metamorphosis as he looks up at her, anger transforming into bewilderment. "He came at me," Ward says, "I don't know what's going on." But even as he's talking his fingers are trying to find their way around Clint's throat again and silence him more permanently. It’s the lie that does it, tells Clint what’s going on here. If Ward had managed to take out Clint now, when the rest of them were on their way out, they wouldn’t have had backup later or a quick exit planned; Clint’s pretty sure Phil getting back to the Hub quickly is not in Ward’s plan.

"Then let's ask him what’s going on," Phil says from behind Skye, and there is steel in his voice.

His appearance throws Ward just enough that Clint manages to throw the guy off of him and roll away, pushing himself up to sit against the wall. He's got his right hand pressed to the bleeding gash on his left arm and all he can think about doing other than that is wheeze for breath. He manages to crack an eye open and see that Phil has his gun out too and is looking at Ward stone-faced. Ward's look of bewilderment is firmly entrenched. "Son of a bitch," Clint croaks. And because he needs Phil to know this isn't just about him being an asshole and it backfiring on him, or him and Ward’s personalities rubbing each other the wrong way, he says, "Mezcal."

He sees Phil get it, sees the betrayal shuttered back behind a calm facade as he says, "I don't think getting you drunk is going to help the situation any, Agent Barton. Agent Skye, help him with a tourniquet; I'll have you covered. I don't want anyone bleeding out until I get an explanation."

Skye looks rocked, and she still doesn't know what's going on, but she helps Clint with wrapping the tourniquet tightly above his elbow. He grunts his thanks and she moves back, looking between him and Ward.

Ward is rather unmarked, which Clint thinks weakens his story that he _wasn't_ the instigator of the attack, but he stands quietly from where they were wrestling on the floor and sits in one of the chairs. When he turns Skye notices his left hand and arm are also covered with blood- there’s a big smear near his left ear, too, where Clint hit him- and she moves toward him.

"It's not his," Phil tells her flatly, and Skye stops. She looks between Clint and Ward slowly, and then she goes and stands with Phil.

Ward inhales sharply as she passes him, and he reaches for her, but Phil raises his gun. It is aimed at Ward unflinchingly and Phil says, "Tell me what happened here, Agent Ward." As Ward opens his mouth, Phil warns him, "And do not lie to me."

There is something in his voice that says he already knows what's going on, and Ward must hear it because he stops pretending. "I knew he would do this," Ward says, shooting Clint a dark look. "I shouldn't have let Fitz go to the Academy, should have brought him with us instead. He'd listen to me. But I guess without Garrett," he turns to look at Coulson, "I'm not much of a planner. I only think about the things I want." His gaze settles on Skye.

"You're Hydra," Skye says. It's a question, but there is so much realization in her voice that there's hardly anything left to _ask_ , except, "How could you?"

"I don't give a fuck about Hydra," Ward snarls. "It was Garrett that-"

But Skye cuts him off. " _Garrett_ had me _shot_ , Ward." Her eyes are a little wild. "You didn't know he did that, did you? You shot Nash because you thought he was the Clairvoyant, but it wasn't him, it was _Garrett_."

Ward looks torn, like he wants to explain it more to Skye, but there's also something ugly and lost rising in him and he says, "Fine. Believe what you want. Hail Hydra, or whatever." His hand moves across the table until he finds what he's looking for and he pushes a button.

That's a really bad sort of gesture, and Clint's brain will eventually catch up to his body and tell him _why_ that's such a bad thing, but it doesn't happen before he feels Phil slam into him, dragging him away from where things are starting to rumble and he can smell something burning and hear metal twisting, Phil pulling him toward the rear hatch, where Skye is already climbing into Lola, the car pointed at the open hatch. Clint must be weaving in and out for the next few moments: he feels Phil stumble under his weight as the floor shifts beneath them, then they're in the car, then he can hear the tires squealing as they peel out across the asphalt, and then a massive shockwave hits them and Clint gets thrown against the side of the car hard enough that he blacks out for good.

 

Clint wakes with a thrash, immediately putting his hand out in front of him and coming in contact with Lola's windshield. He blinks. His eyes feel sore. He can't have been out long. His left arm throbs beneath the tourniquet. His face stings. He can feel Phil pressed against him. He croaks, "Motherfucker," and turns to look at Skye.  She's sitting in the driver's seat, her hand raised for another slap.

He reaches out with his right hand and catches hers. She inhales sharply and stares at him for a moment. "Coulson," she says, her voice flat. "I need you to wake up, Clint. Someone needs to drive and someone needs to watch Coulson. We need-"

And he cuts her off because he's moving, his hands cupping Coulson's face gently, turning him toward Clint. He's out cold; there's blood everywhere and the worrying smell of gasoline and burning. He glances behind them at the distant, flickering orange figure of the Bus. Skye drove to the other end of the tarmac; he's not sure if she doesn't know how to activate the car's features or if she was just too worried about being the only conscious person in the car to continue fleeing. "We need medical," Clint croaks. His throat is killing him but he feels much less fuzzy. "Let me drive."

"I should drive!" Skye protests weakly. "You're going to pass out from blood loss."

Clint asks bluntly, "You know how to work the VTOL?" and she shakes her head, wordlessly getting out of the driver's seat and holding Coulson as Clint moves behind the wheel.

 

Clint revs the engine and flicks the switch for the vertical takeoff. He stops. "I dropped my phone."

Skye is looking at him like he had better not be losing it because this is too much for her to hold together by herself. "We'll get another one."

Clint shakes his head, putting the car in gear and lifting them smoothly away from the ground. "You have your laptop?"

"Yeah." Her look turns quizzical. "Why?"

"Because my phone is still in the Bus. Secure lines were hardwired into the fingerprint identification so the numbers couldn't be hacked. I need you to find me a secure line to Avengers Tower."

Skye looks up at him, startled. But she doesn't meep at him the way she had when he brought up the Avengers even yesterday. "I don't think I can hack Avengers Tower," she says, matter-of-fact, but her hands are moving worriedly on Coulson's shoulder and he knows she'll try it anyway because they have to. She pulls out her laptop.

"Just hack me a telephone line," he cajoles. "If I can reach Nat, or Stark, I can explain."

She frowns, head bent to her work. "They're not in the book," she mutters.

Clint laughs. They're flying over Manhattan now, and he thinks JARVIS might see them coming anyway.

"Alright, alright," Skye is murmuring as they come up over Broadway. "I remembered, there was a thing AC told me. Alright. I think I've got it."

And her computer makes a sound like a phone ringing.

"Motherfucker," Stark says, and Clint supposes it's still that special predawn time when even Stark's usually asleep. "Who the fuck is this?"

"It's Barton," Clint says shortly. "I'm two blocks from the Tower." And he does bring Lola down to street level, so the word _blocks_ actually means something. A woman walking out of a building gives their flying car a look like she's rethinking her life choices, but Clint can't really help her with that right now, he's got bigger problems. "We need to lie low and we need medical attention."

There's a silence that feels longer than it probably is. "We're not there. _Fuck_." Clint's pretty sure the last wasn't aimed at him, as he hears something crashing.

That is not what Clint wants to hear, because he's getting close to the end of his rope. "Stark. Do you work for the dark side?" Because Nat said he was clean, but it would be nice to hear it from the source. "Because I am so over this shit."

"Fuck, _no_ , Barton." Stark sounds annoyed to be asked, but when he continues there's an element of solidarity in his voice that Clint's not used to hearing. "Listen, JARVIS knows you're coming now, he'll open the door for you. Bruce is calling Keller, she'll be waiting."

"Keller?"

"She's head of the medical floor. She can do whatever you need." Stark pauses and he answers Clint's question without Clint having to ask, "She's clean, JARVIS checked her." His voice warms slightly and he finishes, "We'll be back in half an hour." He disconnects.

And Clint's pulling into the ground level garage. He just sort of pulls up in front of the elevator, and it opens and a young woman walks out. She's still kicking her shoes on and tying her hair back as she comes toward them. "I'm Doctor Keller. Who need medical attention?"

"Both of them," Skye says before Clint can speak. "But I'm worried about AC especially." She turns to Coulson, and Keller is opening the car door and beckoning Skye out, helping her ease Phil toward the door, the second elevator opening moments later to reveal more medical personnel pushing a gurney.

Clint thinks he blacks out again because the next thing he knows there are fingers on his wrist. He reacts to that about as well as a covert operative who's just been choked out could be expected to, and it's only Skye yelling in his ear, "Clint, let her go she has to help Coulson," that gets him to remember why he shouldn't be breaking this woman's fingers.

Keller is made of stern stuff because she doesn't run away, and instead, now that his eyes are open, starts shining a light in them. She's firing off questions, but Skye is mostly the one answering them because Clint's head is full of mud. They're here, this is a safe place, and the adrenaline is failing, and he's starting to check out. He really should stay awake, he needs to make sure they take care of Phil, but then Skye's earnest voice in his ear is soothing him toward the darkness as she says, "I've got you. I'll take care of him."

And Clint trusts her. So he stops fighting the way his eyes don't want to drag themselves open, and he lets unconsciousness take him.

 

 

Clint inhales and wakes up in the same moment, tense at the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. There's an IV in his arm. On a table near the bed he is lying on he can see his bow and quiver.

He calms slightly when he lays eyes on his bow, and his mind allows itself to expand upon his world. He still feels a little fuzzy, but he pushes himself up. He's in the Tower; he's been on the medical level before, though not since Stark finished redoing it, so he recognizes the bones of the room more than he does anything that's actually there. The curtain between his bed and the next one is only half drawn so he can see Skye, sitting in a chair next to that bed, slumped over asleep. He stands up, grabs his bow from the table, and walks over to her. His IV is on wheels and he pulls it with him. He's still too fuzzy to understand what Skye's doing there, but coherent enough to know that something's missing.

Clint's a little surprised to find Stark sitting in the chair on the other side of the bed, but as he gets closer he does see him, sitting slumped so far down he should be the one asleep. But he's not, his eyes hard and piercing as they stare fixedly at the bed’s occupant. Clint reflexively looks at who's lying in the bed.

It's Phil, of course, and he looks like shit. "He's still alive," Clint says; it's his own affirmation, and a reminder that his voice sounds like gravel because someone tried to choke him out yesterday, and Stark flinches hard and looks up at him.

"So it would seem," Stark says. He sounds angry, but then he grins suddenly. "It's been something of a theme this week, I guess." He looks at Clint for a long time before he says, "You sound like shit. You _look_ like shit."

Clint frowns. He's vaguely aware that his face is throbbing. He reaches up with the IV hand and touches his nose, wincing afterward. "Well, you know, had a Hydra agent telling me to shut up. When I wouldn't, he blew up our plane. I think I may have gone face first into a dashboard, but I don't remember."

Stark looks like he's refusing to let himself be impressed. "I was _going_ to say that you look like you did a face-plant into some pavement. Which, if that was your objective, I'm glad you achieved it. I wouldn't want to have to tease you mercilessly about missing the broadside of a parking lot."

Clint scowls. "Is there a reason you're here or was it just to piss me off?"

Stark laughs soundlessly. "I own the building. It means I can be anywhere I want to be." He goes back to looking at Phil.

Clint's about to say something stupid, but he takes a deep breath and steps back from it. "With the explosion and my own fun injuries I'm not really sure what hit him."

Stark grunts. "Shrapnel, in the back. Doc said he had some damage to his liver, and also the lungs." His expression gets darker.

"When the shit went down with Hydra, I found out he was still alive," Clint finds himself saying. "No, I mean, he was dead. Fury did something to him that brought him back to life. Something with alien DNA. But Fury's dead." He looks at Stark.

Stark shifts his weight. "Like I said, theme of the week."

Clint grins. "I thought so. Natasha said something, and I thought that might be it." He's leaning on his bow now, tired from standing, but feeling better in his head, less fuzzy. He reaches out and rests a hand on Skye's shoulder, where she's asleep in the chair.

Skye twitches like there's a current running through his hand, and she spasms her way out of the chair, jumping to her feet, wild-eyed. "Oh my god," she says, because the first thing she sees is Stark. "You're Tony Stark." She stares for a moment, but Clint's had tightens on her shoulder and she turns around. "Clint," she says, and her arms go around him, hard. "He tried to kill you didn't he? We were ready to go, and he said he forgot something, he'd be right back, and he went back into the Bus, and AC was saying that he didn't like you, and I thought it was weird that he would say the things he said to me, and then he was taking forever, I went back in and..." her throat works, "and he said you attacked him, but that didn't make sense, I didn't know what he was trying to do, it didn't make sense-"

"Hey," Clint says softly. He switches his bow to the IV hand and wraps his free arm around her, holding her close even though it presses against the cut bandaged near his elbow and makes it sting. "It's okay. I'm okay. You're okay." He looks over at Phil's sleeping face. "We're okay."

She's crying into his shirt. "I kissed him," she murmurs. "I thought he loved me."

Clint leans down and murmurs, "I'm sorry," against the top of her head. She's so young, so fragile. God, he wants to protect her from this.

But she belies his protective urge and she leans back and wipes her eyes. "Sorry." She takes a deep breath and smiles at him weakly. "I guess I needed to let that out." Her expression hardens. "We need to warn the others. If Ward was Hydra, there could be others. Still hidden." The idea seems to weigh her down, making her look older.

"That is an excellent point, Agent Skye," Phil says. His voice is barely a shadow of itself, but his eyes are open and he's looking at them.

Skye moves to sit on the edge of his bed. "You scared us, AC," she says softly, like a confession, but she smiles and touches his hand.

"I'll look into stopping that," he says wryly. He's watching Clint. "You okay?"

Clint nods.

Satisfied, Phil turns his head toward Stark, who's still sitting in the other chair watching them like their lives are just drama for his consumption. It's one of the things that's always annoyed Clint about Stark. But Phil, of course, takes the opposite approach. "I suppose I owe you an explanation," he says weakly.

Stark looks away. "No. At least, it sounds like Fury's the one I need to yell at about this." He clears his throat and looks back at Phil. "Though the next time you're thinking of dying you could try not doing it anywhere near New York."

Phil smiles. "I'll take that under consideration."

Stark nods. He moves to stand up. He's fidgety, and looking at the far wall like its blank white expanse is really important, and he says, "I'm glad you're not dead." He turns to Skye. "I can set you up an encrypted line if you need to call the rest of your team and warn them; not that _you_ need it, girl-who-thinks-she-can-hack-JARVIS."

Skye looks some combination of thrilled and terrified, but she follows Stark out of the room without looking back.

Phil chuckles dryly, then winces. Clint takes over Skye's abandoned chair, taking Phil's hand in his somewhat proprietarily. It just feels good to touch him, to affirm that he's real.

"Hello," says a quiet voice, and Clint looks up to see the doctor from last night. Or was it this morning? No, probably yesterday morning. "I'm Doctor Jennifer Keller."

"Hello, Doctor," Phil says with a smile. "What's my prognosis?"

"You're doing well, both of you." She eyes both of them carefully, and starts in on Clint first. "Agent Barton, you have some bruising to the larynx and trachea, lacerations to the face, a broken nose, and a severe laceration along your left forearm, near the elbow joint, from a knife. Luckily, the knife struck as such an angle that no major tendons were severed. The arm wound was closed with six staples, and will likely be tender for a while though the injury should not impede your movements. Keep it clean and dry and see me in one week for evaluation and possible suture removal. The other lacerations and bruising should heal without incident though you'd best rest your larynx as much as possible. Your nose was reset and should also heal without any further treatment. You received a transfusion to replace lost blood, and you have been on an IV to replace lost nutrients.

"Agent Coulson." She narrows her eyes as she looks at Phil. "When you arrived, you had shrapnel imbedded in your back which had given you severe bruising around your right lung and to your liver." She looks down at her chart for a moment. "You underwent surgery to remove the shrapnel and repair minor damage to your liver." She looks up at him. "I'm glad to see you conscious, as we hadn't observed any trauma to the brain, but it is a delicate organ.

“I'd like both of you to remain under observation for a while, to make sure there are no further complications from what you’ve been through."

Clint's a little nonplussed at the news. Phil looks blandly interested. "Thank you, Doctor," is all he says.

Keller gives him a sardonic half smile and decides to hit him with the hard stuff. "We drew blood, before surgery of course, and again after you'd stabilized. As of this moment all of your tests have been kept to the necessary batteries and in house," she says. "However, I would be remiss if I didn't mention that we noticed certain... peculiarities. I would like your permission to perform additional tests on the blood samples that we have." Phil is getting tense. "Or, if you prefer, I can have all the samples destroyed."

Phil looks at her. "Really? All of them?" He can't make it not sound incredulous.

She raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't seem offended. "Your blood has some interesting qualities, Agent, and the implications are fascinating. However, it is your blood and it is not my place to act against your wishes. I believe Mister Stark and Doctor Banner would both concur."

It's the mention of Banner that has Phil believing her, Clint's pretty sure. If there was ever anyone who aspired to the ideal of running a medical department where people don't just run off with samples of your blood, it would be Banner.

Phil is silent for a long moment. "I will... think about it."

Doctor Keller nods. "I think that's everything. Let me know if you gentlemen need anything." She smiles politely and leaves them.

Clint has his hand wedged under Phil's and he's stroking Phil's wrist. Clint can feel the burn of the movement in the sutured cut on his arm.

Phil sighs, his fingers moving against Clint's wrist. "You're really okay?" he presses.

"You heard the Doc." Clint leans in. "I know, Stark said I look like shit, but it's all superficial. Sounds like you got hit with the hard stuff." He takes a deep breath. "Thank you, Phil. I wouldn't have made it out of there if you hadn't-"

Phil is shaking his head. "Wasn't going to leave you there," he says like it's completely normal to stop and haul two hundred pounds over your shoulder before running away when someone's just set off an explosion near you.

"Yeah," is all Clint says, but he leans back to settle into the chair. He's not going anywhere.

Phil smiles, like he wasn't going to ask but he's glad Clint's staying, and he relaxes. His fingers spread over Clint's hand, intertwining with Clint's when Clint turns his hand to match him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack listing: "Lola" is written by Ray Davies and performed by the Kinks.
> 
> Notes:  
> \- _Agents of SHIELD_ is a show that annoys me too much for me to actually like it, but I rewatched Season 1 to write this chapter and I have to say it was better the second time around. I guess because already knowing about Ward makes him a lot creepier and actually mildly interesting whereas previously I had always found his character extraneous and dull. I could go on a rant about this entire show... but I'll save you from it and just say I literally could not pass up the opportunity to kill Ward in my story sooner than he dies in canon.  
>  \- Coulson quotes Richard Lovelace's "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars," the last lines of which are: "I could not love thee, dear, so much, / Loved I not honor more."  
> \- I had a lot of fun making up Clint & Natasha’s booze code. Stoli is a popular brand of vodka; mezcal is the tequila-like alcohol that typically comes with a worm (actually moth larva) in the bottle. Famous Nate’s isn’t a real thing, I just needed those initials. Let me know if any of the rest of it was confusing.


	4. And if You Do This, It Will Help You Some Sunny Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has an unexpected guest, he decides to share the experience, their road trip gets hijacked, and he is surrounded by stubborn super soldiers.

**Location:** Universe MTYTYA, Designation: Prime(Alpha)  
Washington D.C.  
_7 days pre-anomaly_  
_(5 days after the Triskelion incident)_

When Sam returns to his home after jogging on the Mall that morning, the door is ajar, the latch not fully caught.

He's still on edge from the events of last week, and he slips inside silently. He snatches the heavy duty claw hammer sitting on the shelf of the coat closet, forgotten after some project, and moves down the hall slowly. He is not in the mood for this shit.

He's not sure what to do when he finds a man sitting on his couch calmly, as if just waiting for him.

"Shit." Sam's fingers tighten around the makeshift weapon in his hands, but his initial feeling that it was not going to help him against an intruder _at all_ is slowly filling with conviction.

The intruder is somewhat camouflaged by a jacket and a ball cap, but Sam knows who he is. The Winter Soldier is seated on the plush couch, leaned forward, his arms resting across his lap. He looks up at Sam. His eyes are sharp and curious.

Sam takes a deep breath. "You here to kill me?" Because why else would there be an assassin sitting in his living room? And Sam is thinking of all the ways he could get out of this- he could probably make it to the door in time to make this more public than an assassin would want- he could stab the fucker in the eye, hard to dodge that even with enhanced speed- he could dial Steve and throw his phone at the guy, see what that does- but Sam also saw this guy in action last week and he's not a quitter but he's not exactly sanguine about his chances.

But the damned assassin is still just sitting on the couch, and Sam starts to read some body language. Both hands, empty, resting openly across the lap. Posture is tense but non-threatening. So Sam takes a different line of approach.

"Are you James Barnes?"

The assassin's head turns, like he's trying to hear something from a great distance. "Jim," he says slowly. "It was my father's name. Call me Bucky."

"Shit," Sam breathes, leaning back against the wall. But his freaking out is not exactly helpful, and he pushes forward. "I suppose you already know I'm Sam. Can you tell me why you're here, Bucky?"

The head turns again, looking around the room like he's surprised to find himself where he's at.

He doesn't answer the question, and so Sam asks a different one. "You remember Steve?"

"Yes." A frown. "No. He was on the bridge. We grew up together." He says these two facts as if they are related in some way, when, as far as Sam's concerned, they're really not. Bucky seems uncomfortable with eye contact, and he looks down at his hands like he's surprised that they exist. The left hand raises slightly, whirring softly.

Sam takes a deep breath. "Do you want me to call Steve?"

Faster than Sam can follow, the metal hand is gripping the arm of the couch, digging in and practically tearing it loose. "No," Bucky says quickly and flatly. He glares at Sam challengingly.

"Okay," Sam soothes, the one to drop his eyes this time. "It's okay. I won't call him." He takes a deep breath. "Can I ask why?"

Bucky frowns. "No."

"Okay." Sam leans away from the wall, slowly. "Can I make you breakfast?"

 The head tilts again, considering. "Yes," Bucky says.

"Now we're getting somewhere." Sam doesn't move. He takes another deep breath. "I'm gonna go in the kitchen then, and make breakfast." He's still covered in sweat from his jog but that's going to have to wait. He walks across the hall to the kitchen and starts the coffee machine.

Bucky follows him, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him. The ball cap is gone, probably discarded because it interferes with sight lines. Of the new articles of clothing, the jacket does less to disguise the predatory wariness of Bucky's movements. His presence is unnerving, and more than once Sam has to stop what he's doing, press his hands on the counter and focus on breathing. Sam tries to ignore Bucky, letting him observe and make himself comfortable in the environment, and mentally compiles a list of things he's going to give Steve shit for. Because making plans to hunt this guy down was apparently a huge waste of time.

When Sam turns around, Bucky is sitting at the table. As Sam watches, he rests his left arm gingerly on the wooden surface, like he’s not sure how to touch it without breaking it. The fingers of his right hand trace the woodgrain like it's full of dangerous memories. _That_ at least is a familiar look; too many of his patients never know what will trigger an episode. He looks up and sees Sam watching him. Immediately, fear and anger chase over his face. He exhales deeply, as if discarding those emotions. Sam raises the plate he's holding that's filled with eggs and toast, and the mug of coffee in his other hand, and brings them to the table as an offering. He walks back to the sink and, though it makes his skin shiver and crawl, turns his back and starts cleaning up while Bucky eats. When he glances back, Bucky has finished the food and is staring at the plate wistfully.

Sam sighs. "Damn super soldiers, wreaking havoc with my grocery bill." He makes sure to say, "I can fill that plate for you again," before he walks back over to the table. No threatening movements would be best; announce intentions and therefore actions cannot be misunderstood.

Bucky clears another plate and only looks slightly bad about it, but that's more than Steve did. He hasn't touched the coffee, so Sam sets a glass of orange juice next to him. "Try this if the coffee's not to your taste."

Bucky raises the glass to his face and sips at it, pulling it back to regard it with confusion. “Tastes wrong,” he observes, but in a tone that suggests _wrong_ might not be the same as _bad_.

“Yeah, Steve’s always saying that.” Bucky kind of glares at him and Sam steps back and redirects the conversation by asking, "Was it you who pulled Steve out of the Bay?"

Bucky tenses. His eyes dart from the glass in his hand to Sam. Finally, he says, "Yes," slowly, like he's waiting to see if it's the correct answer.

Sam nods. "Appreciate it. He was in bad shape, but he recovered quickly." Bucky is still tense. Maybe Sam should find another topic? _Hey, did they play you Trouble Man over there in Siberia? I mean, yeah, it was world changing, but you never know about those Russians._ Somehow, he's pretty sure that's not going to be great either. "He's in New York, looking for you." Bucky stands from the table abruptly, and Sam falls back and adds, "I just mean, you didn't want me to call him, right? We'll he's not going to walk in or anything, 'cause he went to New York." Bucky just looks at him, and Sam observes, "But you knew that didn't you?"

"Observation standard before making contact," Bucky says softly. "Target not observed in fifty-six-hour timeframe. Conjecture: absent from immediate area."

Sam whistles. "You've been following me for more than two days? Man." He shakes his head. "I guess if you wanted to kill me it would have happened by now," he observes, but somehow that doesn't help him to relax. He wants to ask what this man wants from him, but part of it anyway seems pretty obvious. "There's a shower upstairs if you want to use it." He realizes something. "Steve was beating on you pretty hard, wasn't he? Do you need medical attention?"

Bucky's eyes, wandering around the kitchen, snap to him, the metal arm whirring more loudly. He looks like he's deciding whether to flee or attack. He takes a deep breath. "Not necessary," he says shortly. He retreats from the room, and Sam can hear his tread on the stairs.

Sam leans back against the kitchen counter, and his knees go out from under him until he's sitting on the floor, his back against the cabinets. He wraps his hands around his head. _What the FUCK, Steve!!_ When he moved on to assistant superhero-ing, he had not expected veteran's counseling to continue to be a part of his duties. And even if he had, prolonged mental reconditioning wasn't exactly covered in his courses. Sam gives himself the moment, but pushes himself up from the floor and goes upstairs after his guest.

The upstairs is a narrow hall with the bathroom at the end, sandwiched in between the decently sized master room and a narrow closet of a spare room. Bucky is standing in the doorway of the bathroom staring at the showerhead like it's something he's never seen before. He turns when he hears Sam behind him.

"There's some extra clothes in the spare room," Sam says. "Through there." He stops and looks at Bucky. "Is there anything I can help you with?" he asks, more gently.

Bucky shakes his head, but it takes a moment before he reaches out to brush the fingers of his flesh hand over the towel hanging on the wall rack.

Sam says, "Okay," and he starts back down the stairs. He pauses halfway, but when he hears the door shut and the water start running he decides that hovering is one thing that is not going to help.

He retreats to the kitchen and drinks an entire mug of cooling coffee in one long swallow. He inspects the entire ground floor. There are no broken locks or windows. He would swear he left the front door shut and bolted. Sam pulls out his phone and looks at it for a long moment. He should call Steve; Steve would want to know about this. But Sam puts the phone back in his pocket. He promised not to, and the first thing he needs to do is to respect that. This man is obviously not the same person as the super-focused, hard-core assassin who tore a steering wheel out of Sam's hands and completely out of the car he was driving earlier this week. Sam remembers telling Steve that Bucky might be too far gone to save; him saving Steve from drowning and then eating eggs at Sam's kitchen table have gone some ways toward giving him a bit of Steve's desire to not give up on the guy.

He hears doors opening and shutting upstairs, and, after a quick peak to make sure the hallway is clear, he runs up to take his own shower.

 

Sam is back in the kitchen, finishing his own breakfast and nursing another mug of coffee, when Bucky eventually joins him. Bucky is clean shaven and wearing the sweatshirt that Steve left behind; he must have found Natasha's bag as well because his hair is combed back and pulled into a tail at the back of his head.

He stands in the kitchen door warily, watching Sam, his eyes roaming over everything in the room.

Sam sighs. "You're so tense you're making me tired. Sit down."

Bucky glares at him but does enter the kitchen. He goes to the refrigerator and gets the orange juice bottle out. He looks at the cabinet doors until Sam prompts him, "Up and to your left," and he takes out a glass and fills it, joining Sam at the table.

He's moving more easily, slightly more confident in how he places himself within his environment, and he even allows Sam to see the expression of confusion and pleasure that crosses his face when he drinks the orange juice. Sam wants to ask him again _what the fuck_ he's doing here, but Sam's been thinking and decides he should know better than to expect an answer to a question like that. With all the shit Bucky's been through the inability to coherently verbalize a reason for his actions is not surprising. Sam could guess that Bucky recognized Steve and remembered him, but found him too intense of a trigger to approach directly and latched on to Sam as a substitute, recognizing him also from the multiple encounters they've had and connecting him to Steve.

"You're here for a reason," Sam says. Bucky tenses, but it's not a question and he only looks back at Sam quizzically. "You didn't just end up here looking for Steve, you came to me for a reason."

Bucky inhales sharply, but nods.

Sam nods as well. "Do you remember the helicarrier?"

Presented with a direct question, Bucky answers, "Yes."

"Then you remember that you fucking tore my wings apart, man, right?"

Bucky tenses. "Sorry."

It's so little that it's not something he would accept from anyone else. But the way Bucky says it, sudden and harsh with sorrow, and the way his hands clench for a moment helplessly, has Sam saying, "Thanks, man. I appreciate that."

Bucky looks up at him, as if to gauge the sincerity of his acceptance of the apology. He looks like he might say something, but Sam's phone, sitting next to his coffee mug on the table, starts to vibrate. He picks it up, looks at it and flicks it to silent. "It's Steve," he says. Bucky is instantly tense and unmoving, not even breathing, his eyes boring into Sam. "I'm not going to answer it," Sam assures him. "But just to let you know in the future I can't keep not answering him or he will definitely show up to figure out what's going on. And I'm not sure how well I can lie to him." It might be more accurate to say that Steve is so hyper aware of Bucky's existence Sam's pretty sure anything he might say that sounded even slightly suspicious would be considered confirmation of Bucky's presence.

The phone dims, the call going to voicemail. Bucky exhales, and nods to acknowledge that he heard Sam's words.

Sam finishes his coffee and sighs. "I need to get groceries, and then I have a session scheduled later at the center. I assume if you've been following me you know where that is." He stands and looks at Bucky. "You coming or not?"

Bucky shakes his head.

Sam sighs. "Far be it from me to tell you your business, but try not to be seen." Bucky gives him a withering look, and Sam spreads his hands. "Sorry. There are a lot of people looking for you, and I just don't want to be the one to tell Steve you were here but someone else got to you before he could."

Bucky scowls but nods.

 

The rest of the day passes in something of a daze. Sam doesn't recall a single conversation he has and he opens his door, walks into his kitchen, and sets down a bag of groceries he has no memory of buying. He shakes his head and when he looks up, Bucky has slipped around behind him and shut the door Sam had left open. He's wearing a different jacket than he had on before and Sam has the weird feeling that Bucky just arrived in the house moments before him. Bucky is looking out, peering at Sam's neighbor.

"You're under surveillance," Bucky says, voice tight. "I found several listening devices in your home. And the man in that building was watching you come inside."

Sam follows Bucky's gaze. "That's Quinn. He watches anything with a nice ass. While a compliment, that's not exactly espionage behavior." His coffee mug is still sitting on the table and he picks it up to find that sitting in the bottom are a handful of tiny, smashed, high class bugs. "Shit," he observes. "Anyone make you?"

"Uncertain." Bucky shifts his weight like he wants to say something else, but he doesn't.

Sam sighs. "Help me put away the groceries." It comes out kind of snappish, and Sam takes a deep breath and softens it with, "If you want."

"Okay." Bucky moves up beside him.

They're close enough in Sam's small kitchen that he could reach over and touch, but he doesn't. He hands Bucky the carton of eggs. "In the fridge," he murmurs, "and we can make sandwiches for dinner."

 

The evening seems to spread before them, but after putting the dinner dishes in the sink, Sam finds that he is exhausted. "I'm gonna... head to bed." There's a narrow bed in the spare room for his guest; if Sam's remembering correctly there are sheets on it, though he can't remember if they're clean and he's too tired to ask.

Bucky is standing behind him, looking in the sink. He nods to Sam's words, but it's an absent gesture, as if his thoughts are focused on something else entirely.

Sam moves past Bucky, to the hall. He passes close enough that they brush against each other, but Bucky doesn't move away.

 

Sam sleeps like the dead and wakes up wondering why he feels like yesterday was a really important day. He puts on his running clothes and stumbles his way downstairs.

There's a ball cap sitting on the coffee table in the living room and Sam halts. He remembers his visitor. He takes a deep breath. The dishes that he left in the sink have been washed and put away, but there's no sign of Bucky. Sam goes back upstairs and knocks softly on the door of the spare room.

Bucky answers it so quickly that he couldn't have been asleep. He looks at Sam warily. He's shirtless, and Sam is momentarily struck dumb by the beautiful horror of flesh melding into metal that is his left shoulder.

"Hey, man," Sam says when he finds his voice. "Just wanted to check and make sure you were okay before I head out. To run," he adds, though he's sure Bucky knows his schedule as well as he does.

Bucky nods, and Sam sighs internally, thinking that their relationship is not going to be a particularly verbose one, when Bucky opens his mouth. "My clothes are all dirty." He's shooting Sam a kind of sideways, suspicious look- like Sam is the one who bled all over his clothes.

"I can show you where to wash them," Sam offers. "I mean, if you'd rather I've got a card somewhere for the laundromat down on K, but I've got some soap you can use to hand wash if you'd prefer that."

Bucky nods stiffly, and Sam shows him where he keeps the laundry soap. He gets a late start to his run, but he's thinking, hard, and he barely notices.

 

On his return, Bucky greets him in the kitchen with a glass of orange juice and a plate of toast.

Sam looks at him, flabbergasted. "Thanks, man," he manages eventually, and Bucky looks so goddamn pleased with himself. 

Sam knew that part of the reason Bucky was here was to learn how to function again as a person, but he hadn't realized that Bucky was consciously aware of that on some level. Or that he was so quick at picking things up.

"Let me show you how to work the most important machine in this room," Sam says. And even though Bucky makes a face at the smell of the coffee, he watches with careful eyes as Sam prepares his morning brew. They eat breakfast together before Sam has a chance to go off and shower.

Sam heads to his job with slightly less trepidation today.

 

Which was a mistake, really.

The day is stressful, and long, and full of too many emotions.

Bucky meets him at the door again when he returns, with the restless air of someone who has also just arrived. His eyes are all over the street behind Sam as Sam shuts the door.

"That man is watching you again."

Sam sighs. "I told you, he's just..." He leans back to follow Bucky's sightline and manages to catch Quinn's eye. His neighbor seems shocked that Sam would make eye contact, and he hesitates just a bit too long before he smiles politely. It's on the edge of suspicious. But Sam's tired, and his neighbors have never been particularly friendly, even before he got himself sort of famous for helping bust up a secretly evil government agency. "It's nothing," he finishes.

Bucky does not look like he's buying that. "Recommend abandoning this residence."

"What?" Sam glares at him but manages to cut off the rest of the expletive he wants to say.

"Sorry," Bucky says, though he says it this time like it's something that people are supposed to say, not like he means it. "Likely escalation of covert surveillance because of my presence."

Sam shakes his head. "You can't know that. I chose to mess with Hydra. If they're watching me they probably did so looking for Steve."

Bucky seems to accept this, but he repeats, "This residence is no longer safe."

Sam grits his teeth. "We'll deal with it in the morning," he says finally, because he can't deal with it today.

Bucky nods, but he doesn't look happy about it and all through dinner he is tense, his eyes snapping up at every little noise and even at quite a few things Sam doesn't hear.

 

Sam wakes up in the middle of the night. He knows there's someone in the room with him, even though he can neither hear nor see them. He's still debating what he's going to do about it when, from the corner of his eye he sees movement.

He sits up to find Bucky sitting by the wall. "Perimeter secure," Bucky says softly. He's holding something long and straight in his hand; he turns it over and Sam sees that it's a stiletto knife. It's unlikely Natasha would have left one lying around, and there isn’t really anywhere else it could have come from, so Bucky must have brought it with him.

Sam lays back. "Got any more toys?"

Bucky considers the question seriously. "Referring to weapons," he observes with faint amusement. "Currently in possession of four combat knives, M9A1 with seven extra magazines, and three grenades."

"Grenades?" Sam wishes he could make the word sound less alarmed.

Bucky actually huffs a laugh. "Flash," he elaborates, which Sam supposed is good, as the main purpose of the device is to disable an opponent rather than kill. Bucky's arm whirs softly as he moves his hand; he doesn't add it to the list, and Sam wonders if it's good or bad that Bucky is able to disassociate himself and his own body from a list of weapons.

Sam moves restlessly. "I wouldn't have pictured you as an M9 kind of guy."

Bucky's laugh is more full-voiced this time. "It was the only compact firearm with extra magazines available at the time of resupply." His voice is softer as he adds, "Go back to sleep, Sam."

Sam chuffs a quiet laugh. "Right. I'll get right on that."

He doesn't intend to, but he does fall asleep.

 

Bucky is gone when Sam wakes again, but Sam follows the smell of coffee and finds him in the kitchen. He presents Sam with a mug and waits with anticipation while Sam sips at the hot liquid. "It's good," he says, a little surprised, though he's not sure why. Bucky probably has good reason to be quick at picking things up.

Bucky looks pleased, and he takes the mug back when Sam hands it to him. Their fingers overlap as Sam passes it off and he tries not to get excited that Bucky touched him, consciously, and it doesn't seem to be a big deal. Sam had been trying to give Bucky personal space, and allow Bucky to initiate escalation of contact, and he's glad that Bucky has gotten comfortable enough with him to not be as guarded. Anything he can do to entice Bucky to stay here until he's comfortable contacting Steve... Sam hadn't been super excited about Steve’s plan to rush off to the ass end of nowhere to look for a guy who’d spent years as a ghost, so tempting him into staying put _sounds_ like a good plan. Sam would be the first to say that his main concern here is Bucky's own mental health; he seems to be maintaining a consistent level of mental coherence. Hell, Sam's aware enough to admit that Bucky's been controlling this situation since he arrived. Sam's okay with that, for the moment.

Sam goes out for his run. Bucky has previously declined to come with him, but he appears out of nowhere and joins Sam for a loop of the Mall. He could probably lap Sam as quickly as Steve, but he places deep concentration into matching Sam step for step. Sam glances over at him; he's wearing one of those shirts where the cuffs come down over the hands and his hands are fisted, effectively hiding his left arm, the long sleeves not out of place on this overcast morning. They finish passing the reflecting pool and Bucky darts back off the pavement, Sam losing sight of him in some trees as he turns onto a side street.

After his run, Sam stands for a moment breathing heavily and taking swigs from his water bottle. There's a moment after he inhales, when he's completely silent for just that moment, and he hears a quick patter that sounds like gunfire.

Sam's not the only one on the Mall dealing with post combat fatigue, especially after Hydra and SHIELD tore the city up last week, and so he is joined by several other tense-faced men and women as he approaches the source of the sound.

There's a man lying dead on the ground behind a screen of bushes. He's holding a Glock in his hand; Sam can see where the dirt is torn up not far away, the gun twisted in the man's grip by his assailant and pointed to where it wouldn't do any harm. There's a very familiar looking stiletto buried in the man's eye, and Sam feels lightheaded. He avoids the bystander who calls the police, and he walks home barely aware of how he gets there.

Bucky is sitting on the couch. He's in the same place he was the first time Sam saw him, his posture the same, arms held open across his lap. The only difference is that there's a sniper rifle lying on the coffee table in front of him, and Sam realizes what was missing from the picture of the dead Hydra agent- a weapon that would give a reason for him to be crouching in bushes instead of engaging at close quarters. Sam doesn't think he has an inflated sense of self-worth, but he's pretty sure the guy was there to kill him, and that Bucky probably just saved his life.

He processes that, and moves on to Bucky himself. His posture is the same as the last time he sat here; it's nothing particularly military so Sam would guess this is some sort of self- imposed reporting stance. He's not looking at Sam, his eyes fixed on the floor, and, for all his hands are resting open, he is tensed as if expecting a blow.

Sam leans on the doorframe, half the room away. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Bucky jerks at the sound of his voice, but doesn't raise his eyes from the floor. "Surveillance of area revealed hostile element. Hostile engaged in targeting friendly forces. Hostile eliminated."

The report is given in a detached voice, and Sam shivers. The man sitting in from of him has spoken words too similar to this more times than Sam wants to think about. Sam would admit that he lets himself get a little emotional when he asks, hard edge to his voice, "And the rifle?"

Bucky shifts his weight. "Hostile's resources repurposed. Scope useful for distance surveillance." He looks up at Sam then, and Sam's breath freezes in his throat. The voice might be giving a detached report of killing someone, but the look on Bucky's face... It's the look of someone who is well aware that they fucked up but they're not sure how to fix it. He notices Sam appraising him and his expression starts to darken with anger.

Sam takes a deep breath. "He came at you first?"

Bucky blinks, slight surprise showing on his face. "Hostile recognized intent and drew compact firearm. Range of weapon, too far for close quarters. Additionally, ineffective against the arm." He stops for a moment, throat working, and then says, "I moved inside his range, grabbed his arm. I drew a knife and struck a killing blow." He shivers, but almost looks bewildered at this bodily reaction. He sits with bowed head, like he's waiting for Sam's judgement.

Sam takes another deep breath. "Bucky." Bucky jerks, but looks up at him. "Why does this distress you?" Bucky sits confused for a moment, as if he's not sure he can admit to being distressed. "You left your knife in the body," Sam prompts. "And you switched out of reporting mode just now. I'd say you're pretty distressed."

Bucky jumps up from his seated position and begins to pace the length of the room. He doesn't come near the doorway, doesn't seem to be looking for a way out, and Sam stays leaned against the doorframe. "No orders to kill," Bucky says finally, his voice vague. He scowls and starts pacing again. "Protect friendly forces. No civilians were injured," he says, almost to himself. "Aggression acceptable to protect mission imperative."

"And what is the mission imperative?" Sam asks.

Bucky halts. He takes a deep breath and shoots Sam a shifty, suspicious look.

"You don't have to tell me." Sam shrugs. "Just trying to help."

Bucky stops and is looking down at his hands. "He hates it. Bucky. He hates the war.” Bucky shakes his head. “He wants to go home. Home is where Steve is, but then Steve was in the war." There's some disassociation going on there maybe, but Bucky seems to be processing it better than Sam would give him credit for.

Sam smiles sadly. "Yeah. It's tough, when you don’t want to have to fight. But then when the bad guys don't want the same, and they're coming after you and your friends, there's your choice." Bucky is looking at him oddly and Sam realizes that, because he was thinking about Steve when he spoke, he accidentally promoted himself to 'friend' level. He clears his throat. "Killing is… it’s hard on a soul. We can try not to use lethal force, but it doesn't always work out that way. And that's okay. We’re none of us perfect."

Bucky seems to be digesting that. He glances at Sam. "I didn't try," he says like a confession.

Sam nods. "We can work on that."

Bucky nods.

Sam can't believe that it's not even nine AM. This day so far has been a whirlwind of tension and emotions, and he's on the third day of this. He's not sure he's capable of going to work and helping other people deal with their own tensions and emotions. He rubs his hand over his face. "I'm calling in sick to work," he says finally.

Bucky nods approval. "Recommend changing residences," he says, reopening last night's discussion.

After being targeted while jogging completely unaware, Sam is ready to admit that when a super soldier gets twitchy about something it's better to listen. "Alright. Let me get some things together, and we can head out."

Sam steps out into the hallway, making for the stairs. Bucky follows him quickly, crowding close for a moment, and Sam gives ground, wondering what Bucky's up to.

He never finds out, because his phone rings. Sam rolls his eyes and hits the speaker. "I can't talk now, Steve."

Bucky tensed when the phone vibrated, and he goes as taut as a bowstring with the mention of Steve's name.

"Sure, okay." Steve sounds a little nonplussed by Sam's brusqueness.

Sam presses the fingers of his free hand to his forehead. "Let me call you back later, okay?"

"It's okay, I know you're busy. I just wanted to let you know I have an initial destination planned and some downtime between missions the next couple days, if you wanted to get started." He sounds both abashed that he wants Sam to be more interested in Steve's quest to find his friend, and annoyed that Sam _isn't_ more interested in Steve's quest.

Sam rubs his face again. "Steve," he says, half pleading. Because how do you say, _yes, I care about helping you find your friend but he's standing right here,_ when you promised you wouldn't say anything about it? Sam looks up at Bucky as he says it.

Bucky looks back at Sam. His face is blank and hard, like he’s bracing for a blow again, but he nods to Sam.

In the meantime, Steve is not slow, and he's obsessed. "Oh my God. Sam, you know where he is?" He sounds both hopeful and slightly betrayed.

Sam sighs. "He's here," he says. He's surrounded by silent super soldiers for the next long stretch of moments.

"He's in DC?" Steve asks warily.

"No- I mean, yes. But what I meant was he's right here, standing in my front hall about three feet away from me."

There's another length of silence on the phone, before Steve says hopefully, "Bucky?"

Bucky flinches, hard. "Stevie," he says, but it's little more than a breath of air, and Sam's pretty sure that Steve can't hear it.

Sam pulls the phone closer. "He said your name, not sure if you caught it. Keep talking, he's listening." He doesn't add that Bucky is standing with his back to the wall like he's trying to force himself not to flee.

Steve clears his throat. "Jeez, Buck. I... I thought I'd have more time, to figure out what to say to you. I... God, I've missed you so much. I barely lasted any time without you, you know, before I crashed that plane in the ice. I thought that would do it, would end Hydra, and I... And then I woke up and everything was different. And then I saw you on the bridge, Buck, and..." he swallows hard, "God, it threw me, Buck. I... The more I learned about Hydra the more I knew why I was here. And I wanted to let _you_ know, that I'm here for you." He stops for a moment, collecting his thoughts, and continues firmly, "You're my friend, Bucky. Do you remember?" The lack of response seems to finally get to Steve, and he pauses and says, "Sam?"

But as Steve talked Bucky drifted closer to the sound of Steve's voice, and he's standing practically on top of Sam, the phone between them, so that Sam's not sure why Steve's not picking up Bucky's breathing because it's pretty heavy. "Till the end of the line," Bucky says, and Steve chokes.

Of course it's right about then that an RPG lands in Sam's kitchen.

 

Sam barely registers the next few minutes. He's instinctively ducking away from the missile, back across the hall, diving behind furniture. Bucky is throwing himself on top of Sam. Sam is clutching the phone like it's something really important. The concussive blast slams the couch against them and Sam blacks out for a few seconds; his ears are still ringing afterward.

Bucky pulls the rifle that was on the table from its new home on the floor and slings it over his shoulder, and he's hauling Sam back toward the hall and bodily up the stairs. Sam struggles, briefly, because he can't figure out why they're going upstairs when the house is already on fire. But there are men in body armor filing in his front door, and Bucky pulls Sam ahead of him, his arm working in an attempt to shield both of them from the gunfire. Sam is pulling photos off the wall to throw them down the stairs, thinking that this is the second time this week he's wishing he had more weapons in his house.

Bucky was apparently prepared for this happening because Sam's old army duffle is packed and sitting ready at the top of the stairs. Bucky throws it over one shoulder and throws them both through the narrow spare room and out the side window before Sam has time to regroup.

Sam finds himself landing on top of a grunting super soldier in his neighbor's side yard, both of them suffering minimal cuts thanks to the metal arm taking the brunt of the shattered glass. They hear shouting, and roll to their feet quickly; a spatter of bullets hit the dirt as Sam and Bucky start running.

They're several blocks away when Sam stops. He's breathing hard, and as Bucky turns back to him Sam punches him in the chest. "Riley, man," he says, though he's not sure the words make sense. Most everything he owns doesn't have significant value to him- they're just objects, they can be replaced- but there are a couple things that are irreplaceable.

Bucky is staring at him intently, as if he can pull the meaning of Sam's words from the air if he just focuses enough, and Sam clarifies, "He was my wingman, in the Pararescue. The photo, by the bed."

Bucky's face clears and he pulls impatiently for Sam to keep running. "It's in the bag," he says.

Sam stumbles. "What?"

"To facilitate departure, I packed your personal items," Bucky continues. "Personal items are held in high value. Likely you wouldn't quit residence without taking them."

Sam gapes at him for a moment. "A conversation about personal boundaries can probably wait until we're not being chased by people with grenade launchers." Sam decides he's going to take the upshot this time. "Thanks, man."

Bucky nods, and they're running again.

 

When they're far enough away that the police responding to the explosion don't think they're part of the situation, Sam's brain has settled enough to start thinking further ahead. "The way you've been running I'm gonna guess you didn't get shot, " he observes. Bucky grunts, and Sam rolls his eyes as he examines a scrape on the outside of his arm; it's not pretty, but it's not bleeding anymore. "You headed anywhere in particular?" he asks Bucky.

Bucky shakes his head. "Don't know how much they know," he warns. "Best not to contact anyone."

Sam huffs a laugh, wishing he wasn't as out of breath as he was, trying to keep up with a super soldier yet again. "It's not like I'm planning on visiting my _mother_ , man. But I think a little turnabout could be fair play."

Bucky's been guiding them through the crowd of tourists and pedestrians on the Mall with a swift ease, and cutting through back streets whenever he feels they're not going to be noticed. They're passing behind a dive-looking restaurant that hasn't opened yet for the lunch crowd when Sam pulls Bucky to a halt and motions for the duffle bag.

The bag contains: the rifle, a smaller backpack that Sam's pretty sure Bucky brought with him to Sam's house in the first place because it doesn’t look familiar, Steve's clothes he'd left in Sam's spare room, two complete extra sets of clothing from Sam's closet- they're some of his favorites, he's not sure how Bucky knew that- his wallet and keys, some bottles of water and the entire box of protein bars from his pantry, some assorted papers rolled into a tube and held with a rubber band, a photograph of Sam, Steve, and Natasha that had been hanging in the front hall yesterday, and the framed photograph of Riley from his bedside table.

Sam takes the photo frame in his hands and stares at the image of Riley. Wordlessly, he turns it over and removes the back. Tucked between the backing and the photo is a small device Sam got from Stark after the Triskelion incident. He pops out the center of it to produce an earpiece he proceeds to tuck deep in his ear.

The device beeps. "Wilson," Stark's voice says immediately in his ear. "You're still with us." He sounds relieved, which Sam finds kind of weird because they've met once, it's not like he really knows the guy or they're particularly friendly.

"Yeah," Sam says. "We're fine." He looks over at Bucky. They're standing together in the alley, so close that if Bucky was anyone else they'd be kissing. Which is a weird thought, and Sam needs to stop that.

"Cavalry's on its way," Stark says, sounding amused. "Not that there was any stopping him. You need anything?"

"No. Just wanted to let you know we're alive. Wanted to let Steve know," Sam amends. "We were on the phone when the grenade lit up my kitchen."

"Yeah, I got Cap's side of that." The device beeps again and Stark says, "If you hold the case the earbud came in up to your phone I can get you off the grid."

"Phone?" Sam blinks. "I lost it, in the explosion." He's pretty sure he threw it at one of the Hydra guys trying to kill them, but everything right after the grenade is a little fuzzy.

Bucky pulls a phone out of his back pocket. It doesn't look new but it's not Sam's. "What the fuck?" Sam says, inexplicably irritated. "You moved down from assassining to petty theft?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Cause that would be such a change from Italy in forty-two," he deadpans. "It was the sniper's, dumbass. I turned it off but if Stark can clean it we can use it."

There's silence in his ear for a moment, but Sam's pretty sure Stark heard that. And soon enough he shoots back, "That must be Steve's disappearing BFF. Hand over the phone, Barnes."

Bucky probably can't hear Stark, but he pulls the phone battery out of his other pocket and puts the phone back together before reaching out and casually dropping it in Sam's hand, pressed up against the small case. After a moment it beeps, then the phone rings.

Sam instinctively wants to throw it away, but the voice in his ear says, "Answer it, answer it," and Bucky does, picking up the phone and hitting speaker like Sam usually does.

"So, Barnes," Stark drawls, "I hear we owe you for Cap not drowning, oh and the amazing presidency of Lyndon Johnson."

"Shut the fuck up, Stark," Sam shoots back, annoyed. He kind of wants to shove the phone through Stark's face, but that's not really an option at the moment. Bucky looks thoughtful and distant, but not particularly offended or wounded.

"Just hold the phone, Wilson. I'm getting a lock on your location and making sure no one else does."

Sam shakes his head. "We're not staying here. If Steve's coming, tell him to meet us at Natasha's."

There's silence on the line for a moment. "Pepper's staying with her," Stark says eventually. "You better not show up with a bunch of Hydra agents on your tail."

"We won't," Bucky says, and disconnects the phone, sliding it into his pocket.

Sam takes a deep breath. The earbud is also silent for the moment. He replaces everything else in the duffle and Bucky slings it over his right shoulder.

 

They don't encounter anything remotely suspicious on their way to Natasha's. Sam's not sure if Bucky ditched their tail, or if they were even being tailed at all. He knocks on Natasha's door.

Natasha opens it. She doesn't look surprised, but he can't tell if that means Stark warned her they were coming. She looks at Bucky for a long moment, then back and forth between them, and Sam knows she gets the joke.

"If you can't show up on your friend's doorstep with a super soldier, what are friends for?" She steps back in invitation.

Pepper Potts is seated at the kitchen counter. Natasha doesn't ask them any questions, but the look Potts shoots them is wary. "Hello," she says, her voice unfailingly polite. But she isn't the dissembler that Natasha is. "Tony said to expect you, Staff Sergeant Wilson. And Sergeant Barnes."

Her words are met with instant denial. Bucky takes half a step backward, balanced on the balls of his feet like he might flee. And Sam says, "Sam, please, Ms Potts. And," he takes the chance of speaking for his companion, "Bucky."

Her smile is warmer. "Then you must call me Pepper."

Bucky has relaxed minutely, but he's looking around the apartment with a jittery energy that makes Sam realize just how comfortable Bucky had gotten in his own house even in the short time he was there. He's moving around the perimeter of the apartment, checking all the sightlines from the corners of the windows. The drapes are already drawn shut; Sam is sure that Bucky will find Natasha's place more suitably appointed than his.

Natasha, of course, is the one who best understands Bucky's uneasiness and she responds to it by ignoring him completely as he scopes out her residence. "Tony said you has some trouble with Hydra agents." She leans on the counter, across from Pepper, and sips her coffee. "That's what you get for going back to the same address you lived at before, Sam."

Sam rolls his eyes at her as he sits on a stool at the counter, but he hears Bucky huffing a small laugh behind him. "Fine, alright, the next time I mess with Hydra I won't do anything without first consulting all my secret spy and super soldier friends." Having a moment to relax, Sam realizes that he smells like smoke and he's still wearing his jogging clothes.

Pepper is smiling like she feels his pain. "I hear Steve will be joining us shortly."

Natasha snorts. "Not likely. That man does not know the meaning of the word stealth. We'll meet him somewhere that means I don't have to find a new apartment."

Bucky makes a noise in his throat that sounds like agreement. He's standing too close to Pepper, and she jumps, not expecting it. "Sorry," he says, retreating, his eyes flicking to Natasha and then back to Pepper. It's the first word he's spoken since they got here. If Sam wasn't so tired he'd be trying to parse how the talkative guy with the hint of sass from ten minutes ago suddenly turned back into the taciturn soldier who first showed up at his house.

Pepper smiles. "It's okay. I'm just a bit jumpy, after last week."

Bucky tenses, his focus going inward. "Did I..." He looks at her closely. "I haven't seen you before," he states, but he says it like a question.

"No." Natasha is the one who answers him. "Do you remember me?"

Bucky inhales and steps away, prowling his way back to the door. Natasha is standing in the kitchen so that he can't come up behind her the way he did to Pepper and Sam wonders if she did that on purpose.

"Yes," Bucky says eventually. "You broke my fucking goggles. I liked those goggles."

Natasha grins. "We'll call it fair payment for shooting at my friends."

Bucky bares his teeth in what is almost certainly _not_ an answering grin, but he nods.

Natasha just nods back and talks about something else. "If you want, Stark left us a quinjet. It's parked a bit out of town, though. Unless Tony gave Steve his own wings it's gonna be a few hours before he makes the city."

Sam laughs. "Like Steve knows how to do anything with wings except crash them into the nearest pile of ice. Stark doesn't have anyone who can fly him?"

Natasha frowns but it's Pepper who answers. "They've had an... interesting week since the whole Hydra thing. Anyway, Clint's there, and he could probably fly Steve, but he's not likely to be interested in leaving. Tony probably won’t, and I don't think Bruce wants to leave Tony alone."

Sam's starting to think he got the better end of the deal; he's had some down time since the whole Triskelion incident and his life has only been insane again for about three days now. "Thanks for the offer of wings," he says, "but I'm not sure where we're headed yet." He looks at Bucky; Bucky hadn't wanted him to call Steve and Sam would guess that this hasn't changed. "Do you have a...  a back room, or something?" Sam asks Natasha. “And some antiseptic?”

Her eyes slide over the large scrape on his arm and the others dotting his cheek and neck, and then between him and Bucky knowingly. "Sure." She points down the hall, and Sam walks that way.

Sam's only certain that Bucky follows him when the door closes behind him before Sam can turn toward it. "What do you want to do?" he asks.

Bucky looks at him, surprised. "We're waiting to meet with Steve," he says, but the words are flat, like he's repeating back a prepared answer, and he inhales a bit breathily on Steve's name, like it takes up more space than it should.

"That's an option," Sam allows. "I know that Steve wants to see you. But I wasn't sure what _you_ wanted to do."

Bucky remains silent for a long while, his eyes resting on Sam. "Hydra," he says finally. "Need to take out Hydra."

Sam nods. "I know that's what Steve, and Stark, are working on."

Bucky tilts his head. "Stark." He's tasting the word like it's more familiar than the last couple hours can account for. He looks up at Sam in question.

"Tony Stark," Sam clarifies. "I think Steve, and you, used to know his dad?"

Bucky nods, but it's still like he's kind of... absent, from this present moment, so Sam tries to pull him back. "Did you want to work with them to find and take down Hydra, or do something different?"

And Bucky hesitates again, clearly torn. "Combining forces is a tactical advantage," he murmurs, and Sam's not sure he was supposed to hear that. "But-" He cuts off short, then says, slightly louder, "there are many reasons not to."

"Give me one," Sam says.

"Hydra's primary mission is likely reacquiring the Asset. Proximity will increase Steve's likelihood of also being a target. If Asset is reacquired, will become dangerous to allies and civilians. Necessitate, Asset _not_ be reacquired."

His eyes are getting a little wild, and Sam says softly, "Bucky." Bucky snaps his eyes to Sam's face. "We don't have to. If you want, we can stay away from Steve."

Bucky's eyes are sharp on Sam and he's crowding forward, Sam retreating until he comes up hard against the far wall. Bucky presses toward him, his arms resting against the wall to either side of Sam, and Sam has to reach out himself and push against Bucky to keep him from getting closer.

Bucky's chest is warm under the flat of Sam's hands, and Sam breathes deeply, inhaling the scent of Bucky inches away from him. He smells like Sam's laundry soap, and he's staring at Sam intently. "You don't have to," Bucky says, eventually.

Sam swallows. "I don't have to what?"

Bucky draws one of his knives and presses it into Sam's hand. He lifts Sam's hand to the back of his head and angles the blade to press against the base of his skull. "You can finish it." The long strands of his hair fall over Sam's hands like the brush of feathers.

Sam stares at him. "Is that what you want?" He tries to keep the question without inflection, but he's not successful in keeping his anger reined in, nor in halting the words that want to follow. "The guy who's spent the last three days doing my dishes and learning how to make coffee wants me to end it, like he hasn't been fighting with everything there is inside of him to hold on to this?"

Bucky looks up at him, his expression unreadable. "Sam," he says, the word a puff of air against Sam's collarbone. "Necessitate, Asset _not_ be reacquired."

Sam shakes his head. "Won't happen." He moves his hands to hang at his side, the knife dangling uselessly. "I can't promise, I guess. If it looks like it's going to happen," he takes a deep breath, "then we can reexamine. But I'm not gonna put you down like a mad dog when I know better."

Bucky is staring at him. Which is even more disconcerting from three inches away. But Sam stares back into the pale blue of his eyes and lets Bucky think through his own thoughts, because Sam's made his position clear.

Finally, Bucky says, "Steve needs to be safe."

"Okay." Sam reaches up to rest a hand on Bucky's arm. He's too disoriented to realize it's Bucky's left arm until his hand feels unyielding metal under the sleeve that covers it. "If you go to where Steve is, that might increase the likelihood that they find both him and you. But, it could increase the likelihood that you can protect him. And that he can protect you. If they find you when you're on your own isn't it more likely that they'll..." he hesitates, but uses Bucky's words, "reacquire the Asset?"

Bucky tenses and looks at Sam angrily.

"So, what do you want to do?" Sam's not even sure how he would answer that question. If he was being targeted he'd want friends at his back, friends like Steve who can handle himself and, apparently, Stark who can invent some crazy shit. But would he want to bring them under fire as well? It's a heavy responsibility. "No pressure. I'm gonna clean up, okay? Then we can talk about it some more or decide." Bucky nods, turning to open the door to the room and picking up their bag he'd left in the hall. When he turns back, Sam has to add, "But you know if we don't decide soon, Steve will get here and decide for us." And Sam's included himself in this, without meaning to but wanting to show Bucky he's not alone in whatever he decides.

Bucky nods again, and Sam returns the gesture before he shuts the door and pulls his clothes out of the bag. There isn't time for a shower, but he washes up in the sink and cleans his scrapes with hydrogen peroxide.

When he emerges, Bucky turns to him and says, "Go." Sam's wondering if Bucky would have decided differently if he'd given him more time, but there's no knowing.

"Okay. Let's go then."

Bucky opens the door, and they both walk back down the hall. "Natasha, got any cash I can borrow?"

She grins at Sam. "Of course. American, I assume?"

"Yeah. I don't think we're going further afield. What's the location on that quinjet?"

She passes him a map.

 

 

It doesn't take them long to get across town, and the quinjet is parked in an out of the way hanger of a small local airport.

When Sam moves toward it, Bucky stands still.

Sam stops as well and turns to him. "You decide where we're going?"

Bucky shakes his head. "You go. I'll go a different way. It'll be harder for them to track us."

"Bullshit," is Sam's immediate response. "I'm not going to drag you to meet Steve, but you're not putting me off and then disappearing alone into the blue. Steve would kill me if I let you do that."

Bucky shakes his head again. "No he wouldn't."

Sam sighs. "Look, if you seriously _want_ to go off on your own, that's your choice. But, Bucky," Sam steps close to him and reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. Bucky responds by tensing and staring fixedly somewhere past Sam's head. "You came to me for a reason. I don't think that reason has changed. Don't let it change just because you think it's best for me, or for Steve, for you to take the danger and disappear. We want to help you. It's hard to help someone when you don't know where they are."

Bucky looks somewhat mesmerized. "Hav'ta keep Steve safe," he says under his breath, like a prayer.

"If he doesn't know where you are he's going to be searching under every bush, rock, and Hydra base until he finds you," Sam promises.

Bucky growls quietly and grinds his teeth like someone who knows how annoying Steve can be. Sam's pretty sure there's another specific reason that Bucky doesn't want to be around Steve in particular, but he's not going to try to project. He can wait to see if Bucky will tell him.

After what seems like it's been hours but can only have been moments, Bucky says, "Okay."

"Okay," Sam repeats. "Okay what?"

There's a ghost of a smile on Bucky's face. "Okay I'll go with you to see Steve, smartass."

Sam smiles. "It'll keep him out from under bushes," he says, like he's weighing whether or not to let the dog jump on the couch.

Bucky pushes past him and boards the quinjet but Sam can see he's smiling.

 

Sam's pretty sure neither of them has actually flown a quinjet before, but Bucky's already in the pilot's chair starting systems. Sam touches a hand his ear; Stark's comm has been oddly silent. "Hey, you there, Stark?"

A voice answers, "Mister Stark is otherwise occupied, Staff Sergeant Wilson, but I would be pleased to assist you. I am JARVIS."

Sam blinks. "I've, um, heard of you. Can you tell me where Steve is?"

"Captain Rogers is currently 46 kilometers north northeast of your position."

"Can you tell him where we are? That we're not at Natasha's anymore?"

"Of course, Staff Sergeant." There is a slight pause. "I have notified Captain Rogers and he has adjusted his course. He will be arriving at your location in approximately 25 minutes."

Sam looks at Bucky. "Steve should be here in just under half an hour. You sure you want to wait for him? We could still take off."

Bucky makes a noise of amused disbelief in the back of his throat. "Doesn't make much sense if we both skip out on Steve, does it?" His attention is fixed on the control panel for the quinjet, like he's memorizing it.

 

Sam's going to blame the fact that it's been a long, emotional morning for the fact that two Hydra goons get the drop on them.

Sam's leaning against the wall, watching Bucky surreptitiously, when suddenly Bucky reaches up and flicks at something on his neck. He pulls away something small and metallic, his eyes immediately seeking Sam.

Sam whirls around, and he sees the guy- somehow he's crept up _inside_ the quinjet without them noticing, shit Sam must be tired- and immediately engages. Sam slams the man's hand against the quinjet's bulkhead and forces him to drop the device he's holding, that he shot Bucky with, and punches toward the guy's head before following up with a chest kick designed to put some space between them.

The Hydra agent falls back, retreating to the open tailgate of the quinjet. Sam risks a quick look at Bucky, wondering if he's been drugged. He's still standing, though he's glassy eyed and a bit wobbly, like he’s going to need a moment before staying upright is a given.

Sam presses the attack, trying to get the guy out of the quinjet. The guy keeps giving ground until they're out on the tarmac, and only the faintest shadow from behind warns Sam that the guy isn't alone as his partner comes up behind Sam and slams his across the shoulders with what feels like a crowbar.

Sam goes down on the pavement like a sack of potatoes, but he's not out. _Just give me a minute,_ he thinks, his vision spotting, _I'll be right back in it_. He thinks he hears Bucky say something, then a voice Sam doesn't know is speaking Russian. Sam looks up and his eyes focus on Bucky. Bucky is fighting the first guy, sinking a knife in his thigh as the guy yells, but he looks... well, he looks angry and defiant, but resigned, already braced to fight a battle he's never won before, not without Steve. Sam pulls himself to his feet. His left arm is responding sluggishly and he can't tell why under a generalized wave of pain. An adrenaline rush gives him the energy to stand. The man who struck him is the one speaking Russian. He's staring at Bucky, having dealt with Sam already. Sam staggers toward him. He has both hands fisted together and he slams them into the side of the guy's head, right behind the base of the ear, at the jaw socket.

Someone is screaming, but Sam 's not really sure who it is. Sam went back down, and someone is kicking him in the stomach. Sam's arms curl around his abdomen protectively and he vomits. And suddenly the assault stops. Sam curls more tightly, trying to breathe deeply enough that he can organize his thoughts but there is a burning pain running through his chest.

"Sam."

Sam turns toward the sound of his name. It's Bucky, crouched beside him. "Sam," he says again. "Can you stand?"

Sam grunts and nods, reaching out a hand. Bucky grabs it and pulls him to his feet, though Sam doesn't manage it without a sound that's somewhere between an expletive and a scream. He's pretty sure something is broken. Breathing hurts.

Bucky hustles him into the quinjet and before Sam can speak they're airborne.

 

Sam's not sure how much time has passed, but suddenly Bucky is saying his name with a fair bit of urgency. " _Sam_ ," he says again.

"I'm here," he says, suddenly desperate to respond. He sucks in air and immediately keens it back out in a choking cough as he remembers that breathing _hurts_. "Shit," he sighs.

Bucky is silent a moment, then says, "You stopped answering me. The autopilot is broken and I can't leave the controls."

Sam blinks. "I'm okay," he tries, but the words are a little too tinged with blood in his mouth. "I'm here," he says again, because that at least is accurate.

Bucky growls something, but Sam's too busy inventorying. HIs head is throbbing. He doesn't have any serious exterior wounds so at least he's not bleeding out on the floor. The burning pain in his chest is probably a broken rib. It doesn't seem to have punctured anything of particularly vital importance as of yet, so that's something. He tries to move closer to Bucky when a burning ripple of agony from his shoulder makes him stop.

" _Sam_ ," Bucky demands again.

"'Sokay, 'sokay," Sam breathes. "I think I have a broken scapula. Shit. Okay. I'm gonna try not to move a lot."

The quinjet veers wildly to the side and Sam is vaguely aware of Bucky swearing. It doesn't sound like English, but the cadence of profanity is kind of universal.

"What is it?" Sam asks.

The quinjet swerves again. "There's another one. He's on our tail." Apparently literally, because Sam can hear the sound of a body slamming against the side of the quinjet as the guy hangs on.

"Sam?" says a voice inside Sam's head.

Sam blinks. Why is Steve inside his head? It takes him another minute to remember the earbud. He should probably add mild concussion to the running tally of his injuries. "Steve," he says in response.

"I can see you. Can you fly lower? I'll pull the guy off your back."

Sam swallows back the urge to vomit again and raises his voice as much as he can. "Fly lower! Steve's out there."

He sees Bucky turn enough to acknowledge him before returning his attention to flying. Sam fancies that he can _feel_ the craft descending, that he has his own connection to the air currents, that he is the one dancing on them. Something clangs against the outer hull of the quinjet with the particular quality of vibranium, and that's about where Sam passes out completely.

 

He wakes to someone leaning over him. "I miss it so much," he says, because his mind is still in the air, feeling the currents.

Arms are lifting him from the floor of the quinjet and holding him against a body. "What do you miss?"

"Flying." Sam sighs, close to passing out again.

Whoever is holding him pauses. "I'm sorry."

Sam frowns, roused closer to waking but reluctant to leave the gray area in which he currently resides, where the pain is only a dull throbbing instead of a sharp agony. "Not your fault," he says, certain, but after that talking seems too much effort.

He can hear voices, though.

"He'll be okay I think, when we get him to Doctor Keller. What about you, Buck?"

"I'm fine."

"Is that why there's blood running down your face?"

Sam almost tries to rouse himself; was Bucky hurt? Bucky says, voice flat and inarguable, "I'm not leaving him."

"I know he'd appreciate that, Buck." There's a long pause. "I... I'm really glad to see you. Really glad."

If there's a response other than the chest his head is resting against heaving in a deep breath, Sam doesn't hear it.

 

* * *

  
New York City  
Avengers Tower

Sam blinks himself blearily awake to find he is in a nicely appointed medical facility. The room is quiet, the lighting all controlled and soft to his aching eyes. He can see a doctor- a young woman, strawberry blonde- who is unfamiliar to him. She is checking his vitals and notices he's awake. "Good afternoon." Her smile is kind. "How are you feeling?"

His mouth is full of cotton and he wants to know what happened. "Bucky?" he tries, but only really enunciates the first consonant.

"I'm here," a voice on his other side says, and Sam prepares himself for the gargantuan task of turning his head. To his surprise it doesn't really hurt, nothing hurts, but his body isn't really in the mood to listen to what he wants it to do. He manages to get his head turned after what feels like a thousand years, and he finds Bucky sitting, hunched and scowling, next to his bed.

Sam blinks a few times, then smiles. "Hey, man. You okay?"

The scowl gets fiercer, if possible. Sam frowns. "I'm fine," Bucky says.

Sam feels like he remembers hearing that before. "Really?" he pushes, even though he feels like he's not entirely here himself and is about to be even less present.

His eyes much have closed because he doesn't see it, but he feels Bucky lean on the bed and he hears the words, warm in his ear, "I'm fine, Sam. Don't worry about me."

 

Sam wakes again later, sort of. He's aware enough to know that Bucky is still near and that there's a nurse giving him a hard time. The doctor's voice interrupts, but it's the fourth voice that rouses Sam past the point where the random blur of noise coalesces into actual words.

"Oh look, it's Icarus and the other half of the world's last remaining pair of Brooklyn Dodger's fans. How're they doing, Doc?"

Sam hears the doctor answer Stark, but she must be turned the other way because he can't make out her words. He might lose a little time, because the next thing he hears is Stark again.

"-you let me know?" Stark says. He sounds serious, and Sam thinks he must be talking to Bucky, because Bucky's hand is pressed next to Sam's, like he wants to touch Sam to ground himself but is also trying not to disturb him.

But what Bucky says is, "Frank Simmons." He blurts the name out, kind of awkwardly, and there is what feels like a long stretch where there is no sound of voices, only the beeping of hospital equipment. Bucky takes a deep breath and adds, "I... I remember. It was... I remember that one." He moves restlessly, like he kind of wants to run from the room; Sam can feel the tension all through his body like a heavy pressure along Sam's right side.

"Holy shit." That's Stark again, sounding like he's trying not to sound utterly flabbergasted. "That's..." He clears his throat. "Thanks. I... That's-" He doesn't manage to say what that is before sleep reclaims Sam completely.

 

The next time Sam wakes, he feels much more present in the here and now.

Steve is dozing in the seat by the bed where Bucky had been when Sam fell asleep. When he tries to move, Sam discovers that his left arm is strapped to his chest. Moving too quickly, as he'd tried, makes the agony ripple up under the soothing comfort of the drugs and Sam stops.

His movement startles Steve awake. "Sam." Steve smiles encouragingly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit with a crowbar." He grunts. "And kicked in the ribs."

Steve laughs. "Yeah, I think that covers it." He falls silent as the doctor walks in.

"Good morning," she greets Sam. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I'm Doctor Jennifer Keller and I put your shoulder blade back together."

"Thank you for that, Doctor," Sam says with feeling. "What's the damage?"

"CT scan revealed a fracture along the scapular spine that should heal on its own, and a more severe fracture of the glenoid articular surface. We performed surgery to reposition the bone fragment and reattached it to the scapular body with surgical screws."

Sam blinks. "Am I gonna set off metal detectors?"

Doctor Keller smiles patiently. "No. Your other injuries were far less severe. Your rib is only fractured, and you have a mild concussion which has not evidenced any more serious symptoms." She frowns. "That scapular fracture is going to take at least four weeks to mend properly, even with the advanced bone growth stimulants that we have access to. I don't like to rush bones." She fixes him with a stern look, "For the next few days absolutely _no_ using that arm for lifting anything heavier than a dinner fork without my clearance."

"Yes ma'am," Sam replies.

Her eyes are dancing with good humor. "You're free to go whenever you feel ready. You'll need to be getting a lot of rest to heal over the next few weeks, but your head likely won't let you want do much else for the next few days in any case. I'll want to check on you every twenty-four hours for the next couple days, and at least once a week after that as we start working on reducing joint stiffness. Let me know if you have any questions; JARVIS can usually always reach me directly."

Sam smiles at her but feels hesitant as she leaves him with Steve. He remembers a grenade lighting up his kitchen; he doesn't really have anywhere that he can go. But the more important thing right now is, "Where's Bucky?"

Steve's smile instantly falters and Sam feels his heart contract. "He's... around. Somewhere."

"Oh my God, Steve, what's wrong?"

Steve heaves a deep sigh that makes Sam's ribs ache to _look at_. "He'll hardly stay in the same room with me," Steve says sadly. "I can leave if you wanted to talk to him."

"Shit, Steve! No! I just wondered, is he okay?"

Steve leans back and rubs his face. He looks tired. "I don't know. I guess so. He won't let anyone look at him, but Keller didn't push it and I figured if he's mobile the serum will eventually take care of the rest. Did... did he tell you anything?"

Sam feels a little like he has whiplash. "Anything about what?"

"About anything! Sam, he won't talk to me. He can't stand to be near me. I..." Steve fists his hands in his hair, elbows resting on his knees. Sam's never seen him like this. "Did I do something?"

Sam closes his eyes. He just woke up and he does not need this right now.

"I'm sorry," Steve says immediately. "You have a concussion, I shouldn't... You should go upstairs and lie down, or eat something." He moves to help Sam sit up, but Sam has to stop him.

"Upstairs?" he asks.

"Um, yeah. Tony gave you a room, um, a suite I guess. If that's okay? I figured Keller would want you to stay somewhere close? And Bucky already took your stuff there."

"Bucky set up my room," Sam says slowly. He wonders how much of his confusion is the concussion and how much is because this doesn't make sense. Should it make sense? He feels like he knows that Bucky is Steve's best friend and that he's only know the guy for going on four days.

Steve's mouth is a thin line. "I think he thinks it's his room, too." He looks at Sam. "Is that okay? I can ask him to give you some space."

Sam reaches out and thankfully Steve takes his grasping hand because Sam wasn't exactly sure what he was reaching for other than trying to make Steve _slow down_. "Steve," he says slowly, "whatever Bucky wants is fine with me. _Steve_ ," he pulls Steve closer. "You didn't do anything. Give him some space." He blinks. "Let me talk to him." He hasn't talked to Bucky in what feels like a long time. "When my head stops hurting, anyway. Steve, it's going to be okay."

Steve laughs softly. "Not even off your sickbed and I'm already putting you to work."

"Knew what I signed up for when he showed up and I didn't call you," Sam grunt as he eases himself to the edge of the bed.

Steve helps him stand. "Why didn't you?" he asks softly.

"He didn't want me to," Sam says in frustration, because he can't shrug, and he can't sigh in exasperation without his insides feeling like death, but he doesn't want to put this on Steve like that so he lets his head bump against Steve's shoulder. "Ouch. Shit, that hurts, too.

"Steve. He showed up, and I didn't know what to think. I wanted to make sure he knew he could trust me, you know? I said I could call you, but he said no. I think he's trying to figure out his head on his own. And he figured out how to make toast, and my coffeemaker, though he won't drink it, and he stopped a sniper from shooting me when I was jogging, and-"

"Hey," Steve stops him gently. "It's okay, Sam." His arm is firm and strong around Sam's back. "He... He seems really taken with you. And that's okay, I just... I just want to make sure he's okay."

Sam nods vaguely against Steve's shoulder. "I think so," he says. He's kind of staring at Steve's shoulder and realizing that Steve's wearing a t-shirt.  "Clothes are going to be a bitch with one hand," he mutters.

Steve chuckles, and drapes a long robe from the closet around Sam. "I'm sure Bucky'll help you," he says.

And Sam does not need that image in his mind when his defenses are lowered by painkillers. He grunts in annoyance at Steve, but remembers his kitchen suddenly. "There was a grenade in my kitchen."

"Hill is taking care of it," Steve assures him. "Is there anything you want me to tell her?"

Sam frowns. "No. Thanks." He leans on Steve as they make their way out.

"Not a problem, Sam."

They meet Bucky just outside the door to the medical area. There is bright sunlight washing in through the massive windows and, despite Sam's headache, he can't help but notice that Bucky looks good- freshly shaved and well rested, though if he's been hanging around out here waiting for Sam who knows how he managed sleep.  God, sleep sounds good. Almost as good as Bucky looks. Sam's glad that he's too out of it to embarrass himself as he ogles.

As they walk out, Bucky shoots Steve a look most people would give to a victim of the black plague attempting to approach them, but takes a deep breath and slides up next to Sam. He's on the side with the broken shoulder, so he can't help much with Sam leaning on him, but when they reach the elevator Steve silently passes Sam off to Bucky.

Steve smiles a thin, tight smile. "I'll see you later," he promises Sam. "Rest up."

Sam grumbles. "Tell Stark I want my new wings," he says. It's not something he would have said usually, but if he's going to have his movements restricted for the next four weeks he'd damn well like to have something to look forward to after that.

Steve grins, but doesn't answer before the elevator doors close.

They go up one floor and the door opens as two men get on. The first one has healing cuts all over his bruised face; he eyes them but nods professionally. Sam nods back; he feels like acting professional while stuck wearing a hospital robe and borrowed medical scrubs is a real accomplishment. The other man, leaning all his weight on his companion, is staring at Bucky.

"Oh my God," he says. "You're Bucky Barnes."

Sam feels Bucky tense beside him, his expression getting dark and stormy.

"Phil, leave the guy alone," the first man says. He eyes Sam for a moment.

Sam thinks, _what the hell_. "Sam Wilson," he says. He waves in the direction of his shoulder and strapped arm. "Hydra goon with a crowbar."

The other guy looks impressed. "Clint Barton," he says. He jerks his chin at his companion. "Phil Coulson. And our Hydra goon blew up a plane."

Sam whistles.

“We were grounded,” Barton adds, “But it was a big ass explosion.”

“Well, here’s to sticking it to Hydra.” Sam raises an imaginary glass.

Barton grins. “You look like you’re still too patched to enjoy one, but I’ll take a raincheck.”

Sam grins back.

Bucky remains silent. Coulson continues to stare at him. Barton snorts unexpectedly. "Sorry. Just, something Natasha said finally makes sense now." He eyes Bucky. "Recently in DC?"

Bucky stares back at him like he's contemplating whether or not murder is a good idea.

Sam blinks. "Yeah, we just saw Natasha actually." He remembers "Clint" being one of the names Pepper had mentioned.

The elevator dings and the doors open. Barton hauls Coulson out with a parting, "See ya round," thrown back toward Sam.

And Sam is alone with Bucky. He really shouldn't be doing this, but his self-control is a little wonky, so he says, "How are things with you and Steve?"

Bucky shoots Sam a dirty look. "You're injured. You aren't allowed to make annoying remarks."

Sam laughs. He laughs so hard that he's in tears from the pain in his rib, in his head, in his entire body, until he's shaking with silent sobs, Bucky holding him up. They're done with the elevator and Bucky half carries him out of it and down a hallway to deposit him beside a comfortable looking plush couch. Sam's finally managed to stop laughing and so he looks around as he sinks down into the couch's embrace. The room looks to be done in comfortable, eye soothing shades, and everything looks... well, comfortable is a good work. It is not something Sam would expect from Tony Stark. "This is your place?" he asks Bucky innocently.

Bucky stills. "It's yours," he says, and he thinks about it for a moment until he squares his shoulders with resolve. "There are two rooms. Doctor said you need help lifting things. So, I'll stay and help you."

Sam closes his eyes. Steve was right. What the hell has been going on while he was passed out? "Thanks, man. I know you'll be a great help. You already have been." He smiles reassuringly, if a little blurrily.

Bucky is watching him like he said something crazy, and Sam asks him, "What?"

Bucky shakes his head. "You were right. It's better, to have backup." He sits on edge of the table, in front of the couch, close enough he can rest his hand on Sam's knee. "If you weren't there, I..." He doesn't want to say it, so he switches tracks. "If Steve wasn't there, I wouldn't have been able to help you."

Sam reaches out and rests his good hand on top of Bucky's. He's not sure he can speak, but he clears his throat and tries, "I'm so glad we didn't have to enact Steve's plan to chase you around the world to prove that to you. Now, can you tell me why you're giving Steve the cold shoulder?"

Bucky instantly shakes his head in denial. He moves to help Sam get comfortable, and he goes to the kitchen and brings Sam a drink, and dinner, and then shows Sam where the bathroom is.

 

Sam falls asleep on that comfortable couch under a pile of blankets and dozes for a while, and he's not sure if he's awake or asleep when he hears Bucky say, "He knows. Steve knows, and I can't... I can't get it wrong."

"What?" Sam blinks himself more awake. "What does Steve know?"

Bucky is sitting on the floor next to the couch; the back of his head is close enough that Sam could lean his face against it, and his right hand is raised, playing with something that glints in the low light. Bucky sighs. "Bucky," he says, simply. "Steve knows how he's supposed to be. He knows that I'm not..." And he falls silent.

"Hey." Sam does it, he leans his forehead against the back of Bucky's head. "He _knows_ that _you_ are Bucky. You are who you are, and that's who you're supposed to be." Sam frowns; maybe he should wait until he's healed of his brain injury before he has this conversation. "He knows, Bucky. He knows and he wants to get to know _you_ better, the way you are now."

Sam's not sure how that conversation ends, because that's where he falls asleep for real.

 

This being injured and sleepy all the time thing is getting annoying already, and he still has three weeks and six days to go. Hopefully once the concussion heals he won’t feel as disoriented.

Sam wakes up on the couch where he fell asleep. He aches all over. Thankfully, he apparently has a super soldier nurse, because Bucky immediately offers him a glass of water and some of the pain medication. Sam is too annoyed at himself to be self-conscious when Bucky helps him to the bathroom again and helps him find some real clothes. Sam can't spend another day sitting around in his hospital pajamas, he might just go crazy.

The process of getting dressed exhausts him, and he sits back down on the couch and falls asleep as soon as his head touches the back.

It's late afternoon when he wakes again, and pretty much goes through the same routine with even less grace. Bucky is amazingly good at putting up with Sam's snippy comments and after Sam's done with his dinner he leans back and says, "Thanks. I've been a real bear all day, and you've been really great."

The look Bucky sends his way is kind of surprised, with a huge dose of sardonic humor behind it. "I haven't broken anything yet so I figured we weren't quite even," he quips.

"Hey." Sam reaches out and lays his hand over Bucky's. About to pull away, Bucky freezes when Sam touches him; it's Sam's right hand, resting on Bucky's left forearm, as if any part of Sam could stop him from moving it even if Sam was at the top of his game. "This isn't your fault."

Bucky nods, but he's not looking at Sam.

"Bucky." Sam lets his fingers tighten in their grip. "If you're helping me out because you think this is your fault, then I'm going to have to throw you out." He means for his voice to be serious, but it's mostly angry. "I wish I could kick that guy's ass all over again, if he made you think that."

"You broke his jaw," Bucky offers. "And I know. It's Hydra's fault you got hurt, not mine. This time." He looks shifty for a moment, but finally says, "You help out people, to say thank you." His eyes flicker to Sam's, as if to gauge the accuracy of the statement, and Sam nods. "So, thank you, Sam."

Sam squeezes his arm again. "When I'm feeling less like a useless pile of shit I'll thank you for helping me out." He has to reclaim his hand so he can run it over his face. "Did I really break his jaw?"

Bucky nods.

Sam grunts. "Good."

He goes back to sleep for most of the night, waking at 3:30 in the morning because the drugs are wearing thin and his shoulder won't stop throbbing. Bucky patiently bears his grumbling and brings him a glass of water. Sam can't get back to sleep and he stands to pace restlessly from the main area to the bedroom. The picture of Riley is sitting beside the bed; the smaller photo of him, Steve, and Natasha sits beside it. Sam lays on the bed and tries to sleep there, but he's pacing drowsily back to the couch just under two hours later. "I can't sleep, I've slept too much," he grouses.

"Staff Sergeant Wilson," JARVIS says, and Sam jumps, then swears when tensing jostles his shoulder. "Apologies," JARVIS says, "but Captain Rogers is also awake. He asked if you would like him to keep you company?"

Sam's about to say yes, but he remembers at the last minute and looks to Bucky.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Tell Steve Sam said yes," he calls to JARVIS, then sits back with a scowl, his arms folded.

"You don't have to stay."

Bucky shakes his head stubbornly, and Sam maybe remembers half of a conversation they had last night when he was half asleep. It was about Steve, he's pretty sure, and Bucky being afraid of Steve's expectations.

 

By the time Steve shows up, Sam's laid out on the couch, halfway to falling asleep again.

"Is he sleeping?" he hears Steve say. "I can leave."

Sam wants to say _No, stay_ , but someone beats him to it.

"Stay," Bucky says. The word is clipped and without inflection, but Sam can almost _hear_ Steve responding to it.

"Yeah?" Steve says. "Okay."

Sam stirs. "'M awake," he mumbles. "Help me sit up."

"You should rest," Steve chides him, but does help him sit up.

"I've been sleeping all day and all night," Sam complains. "All I do is wake up and bitch at Bucky for ten minutes then fall back asleep. It's _exhausting_."

"Thirty-seven minutes," Bucky says, completely deadpan.

Steve grins. It's a quick, warm gesture, that Sam can't remember ever seeing on his face before. "He giving you trouble, Buck?"

"Nothing I can't handle." Bucky's responding smile is a mere ghost of an expression, and he ducks his head afterward, seemingly fascinated with the way his own fingers interlace.

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Yeah, you always handled us well."

Bucky looks up at him quickly. "Like in Vaduz? Dernier always got twitchy in border towns, wouldn't stop playing with detonators."

Steve's grin spreads. "Yeah. Yeah, Buck." He swallows. "You remember?"

Bucky looks down. "Some." The word does not invite more questions, and Steve tears himself away with an almost physically observable difficulty.

"So," Steve says to Sam. "How're you feeling?"

It's not what he really wants to ask, it's just the first words on his lips, and so Sam responds accordingly. "Where are you and Stark at with Hydra?"

Steve blinks, but takes it in stride. He settles himself in the chair across from Sam and tells them.

After what feels like an hour but is actually about twenty minutes, Sam starts blinking heavily, his eyes opening slower than they close.

Steve stands. "I should go. You need to rest." Sam wants to protest, but Steve's right- he's not actually paying attention to words anymore. Steve shoots Bucky a look and a tentative smile. He seems about to say something, but swallows it. "I'll see you later," he says to Sam instead.

Sam waves his hand tiredly. "Later."

"Steve," Bucky says.

Steve halts immediately and turns to him, his expression awash with hope fiercely restrained.

Bucky can't quiet meet his face and looks down. "See you later," he repeats Steve's words.

"Yeah, Buck. I'll see you later." Bucky's still looking down so he doesn't see Steve's smile, which doesn't quite manage to keep the hope restrained as fiercely. Sam's pretty sure if he didn't have a broken shoulder Steve would be about to break every one of his ribs with the hug he's contemplating. As it is, he just goes bounding out of the room with all the energy of a Labrador Retriever.

"That was really great," Sam says to Bucky after Steve's gone.

Bucky shoots him a look, like he's wondering if Sam's mocking him.

"I mean it," Sam says earnestly. He lists sideways, his eyes drifting closed. "Steve was really excited, that you talked to him."

Bucky huffs an impatient breath. "He wants too much."

"Mmm," Sam responds. He wants to say more, but sleep pulls him under.

 

He wakes to the sound of voices.

It's Bucky and Doctor Keller, talking _sotto voce_ somewhere behind him, and Sam grunts to let them know he's awake. He flails a little bit as he tries to sit up, but Bucky is there to help him right himself.

"Good afternoon, Staff Sergeant," Doctor Keller says brightly as she comes around to the other side of the couch where he can see her. "How are you feeling?"

Sam grunts again, disoriented, and accepts the glass of water that Bucky is insistently pressing into his hand along with the pain medication.

Sam leans back and sighs as deeply as his bruised body is capable of. "Fine," he belatedly answers Keller.

She smiles. "I'd like to check your incision, if you don't mind. You were asleep the last time I came by so I didn't do as deep an examination as I'd have liked."

"You could have woken me," Sam grouses as he takes off the sling that holds his left arm against his body and tries to figure out how to undo his shirt. "All I ever do is sleep."

"Sleep is very important for your body to heal," Keller says. "Sergeant Barnes assured me you were not evidencing any symptoms of infection or pulled sutures, and so I let it slide at the time in favor of letting you have your uninterrupted rest." She frowns. "Is there a reason you're not sleeping in bed?"

Bucky bats Sam's hand out of the way and unbuttons his shirt, so Sam is able to direct his entire attention to Keller's question. "The couch is firmer," he says, though he's not sure if that's it really. "Bed's too big. It's too easy to forget, to try to roll over on my left side before I remember why that's a bad idea."

Keller nods. "If the couch becomes uncomfortable or you want a change of scenery, you can try supporting your body with extra pillows. Just tell JARVIS if you need more, or different ones." She moves to stand behind him, her fingers light on his skin as she examines his shoulder. It feels swollen to him, but Keller makes a noise of satisfaction in her throat before she asks, "And are you sleeping well?"

She must include Bucky in the question with a look that Sam doesn't see or something, because Bucky answers her, "Yes. Calculate average 28% of observed sleep time spent in REM stage."

Sam huffs a soundless laugh. "Thanks, man." Sam doesn't wonder why he's not really freaked out by the idea that Bucky watches him sleeping. He turns his head until he can see Keller. "Yeah, I'm sleeping well."

She smiles. "Excellent." She pulls out some antiseptic and then recovers the sutures with light bandages. "Everything looks like it's healing well."

Sam's stomach growls. "Thanks, Doctor. I guess it's breakfast time."

Keller laughs. "I'll leave you to it."

"Dinnertime," Bucky corrects him as Keller walks to the door.

Sam protests, "I just woke up, I want some breakfast."

"Waking up is all you've been doing for three days."

"Hey." Sam narrows his eyes. "I want breakfast."

He can see a grin pulling at Bucky's lips, and as Bucky turns to catch Sam's eye he loses the ability to contain it, and the grin breaks out wild over his face.

Before Sam realizes what he's doing, he's reached out his right hand to cup Bucky's cheek. Bucky's skin is rough with stubble as it brushes against Sam's hand. The grin slides off his face and his eyes open wider in alarm, but he doesn't move away. "God, you're beautiful," Sam hears himself say, and his thumb is sliding over Bucky's cheek, and he has to consciously stop himself from brushing it over Bucky's lips.

Sam takes a deep breath and pulls his hand back. He clears his throat and focuses his gaze on the kitchen. "Breakfast?" he says again, like the little interlude never happened.

Bucky stands, and Sam is too off kilter to let himself look at Bucky's face. "Yeah," is all he says, and he helps Sam stand and walk to the kitchen table.

 

The meal is quiet but not as awkward as Sam thinks it probably should be, and afterward Sam feels lethargic but not particularly tired.

He walks around a bit, just looking at things and letting his mind wander, and he's standing in the main room looking at what the massive floor to ceiling bookshelves have been stocked with when he remembers something. "Hey, Bucky. Who is Frank Simmons?"

Bucky, sitting sideways on the arm of the couch and watching Sam's explorations with amusement, suddenly stills, his eyes fixed on Sam with sudden fierceness. He doesn't answer.

Sam leans on the bookshelf and blinks his way to the reason why he remembers the name. "I think I was waking up, on the medical floor, and you were talking to Stark."

Bucky stands up, pacing back and forth across the far side of the room like a caged tiger. Watching him is tiring, and Sam moves back to repossess the couch. "It's okay," he says. "Never mind me."

Bucky growls at him, and Sam leans his head back and lets his eyes fall shut.

"He was a Hydra agent," Bucky says eventually.

Sam opens his eyes and frowns. His hand makes a reaching motion not entirely under his control. "He hurt you."

Bucky sighs. He comes closer, sitting on the table in front of the couch. "He's dead," he says.

Sam reaches again, his fingers turning in an attempt to grasp Bucky's hand, but between his weariness and lack of muscle tension he mostly ends up waving his fingers around and half-petting Bucky's hand. "Why does Stark care?"

"He organized the team that murdered Stark's parents. I shot him." Bucky's hand under his turns to match against Sam's fingers. "Go to sleep, Sam."

And he's holding hands with a man who just confessed to murder, and Sam doesn't even care. "I wanna try the bedroom," he murmurs. "I wanna see Riley."

Bucky pulls him to his feet by the hold on his good hand, and they're walking, Sam half stumbling sleepily, toward the bedroom. Bucky finds Sam some extra pillows to help keep him from rolling on his left side.

 

When Sam wakes again, he sees Riley's smiling face sitting on the table in front of him, and next to it him, Steve, and Natasha looking shady as fuck. Sam's pretty sure Natasha is laughing at him.

The day progresses in much the same vein: Sam wakes up, he putters around until he gets tired again, then goes back to sleep. JARVIS offers them the Ninth Floor's lobby if they're looking for a change of scenery, as it has particularly nice greenery, but Sam falls asleep on the way back and Bucky has to carry him out of the elevator.

His next attempt at consciousness has Bucky teaching him how to play Gin, though it mostly ends up as Sam being frustrated that he can't hold his cards at a good angle and play them at the same time with only one mobile hand. "Is there a reason I'm holding ten cards in my hand?" he grouses.

"Because you're losing," Bucky tells him, straight faced.

"Sirs," JARVIS puts in. "The Avengers team has just returned. Captain Rogers wondered if you would be amenable to his joining you."

"Steve's better at Gin than you are," Bucky says, matter-of-factly.

Sam sets his cards on the table and throws up his good hand. "Tell Steve, yes," he clarifies to JARVIS. "I need someone to help me deal with this guy."

Steve comes bouncing in like he hasn't just been flying halfway around the world knocking down Hydra goons for most of the day.

"Having some difficulties today, Sam?" he says with grave seriousness. "I heard some old-timer was handing you your ass at Gin."

And Bucky laughs. His right arm falls against his stomach, his head leaning back, and he's still laughing. He finally sucks in a deep breath and stops. Steve and Sam are staring at him, and it's a little bit awkward and Bucky freezes up a little.

But Steve refuses to let it be awkward, and he slides into the chair next to Sam's and picks up Sam’s hand and starts playing. Bucky slips back into the game. It's something familiar, Sam can see, and the structure of the game gives him a script when he stumbles over what to say and when he can't quite bring himself to look at Steve.

After a couple hands, they're really getting into it, and Sam decides to throw a wrench in it and see what happens. Steve is playing Sam's hand for him, so Sam leans in beside him and starts making asinine comments like, "So, is that what an eight looks like, I've never seen one on a card before," or, "What does K stand for again?"

Steve is giving him mock dirty looks and Bucky is grinning.

Sam's about to call it a night, or whatever it actually is, when they're interrupted by JARVIS. "Captain, there has been an explosion in Mister Stark's workshop. I have been unable to contact him, or Doctor Banner, for seven minutes."

Steve stands and rests a hand on Sam's good shoulder. "Sounds like someone else needs to take a time out also." Sam grunts at him, but he's mostly too tired to protest. Steve turns to smile at Bucky. "I'll see you later?" he says hopefully.

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Stupid punk," is all he responds with but Steve grins.

Sam makes it back to the bed, grumbling all the way, but today was better than yesterday- he's lessening the amount of medications he's on and he's spending less of his time asleep. So, he's healing. It's just a slow process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack listing: "Simple Man" is written and performed by Lynyrd Skynyrd. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> \- While this was a chapter that sort of wrote itself, there’s a bit more stuff in it that I’m uncertain about than usual. I assigned Sam the rank of Staff Sergeant based on vague Internet research (and I think I read it in another fic, too), as I can't find anywhere it's stated officially in the movies; I’m assuming that’s still applicable even if he is retired from the active military. Most of my medical knowledge comes via Dr. Google, but for this chapter I did base some of Sam's injuries and recovery on my own experience with a broken leg and a head injury (my memories of which are vague at best as, A. Head injury, and B. I spent a lot of the time heavily medicated). Also, I realized only afterward that his injury meant that Sam was probably going to be sitting out most of OOOT, the action parts at any rate. I do have another story with these two planned for afterward, though. (Muahahaha, oh I have plans....)
> 
> \- Just a reminder (or a first time notification for those who haven't read “You’ve Got the Teeth of the Hydra Upon You”), all my original characters (assorted doctors, scientists, and Hydra/SHIELD agents) are named after characters from _Stargate SG-1_ and _Stargate Atlantis_. Most notably, for this universe, no one mentioned in this chapter named Simmons is related to anyone else appearing in this story who is named Simmons.

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to those who made it to the end; I hope the story was enjoyable! I'm a huge fan of constructive criticism, as writing is an art at which I wish to always better myself, and I would love to hear your thoughts on the story, both good and bad. Thanks especially to all who have written comments or given kudos already; I love checking my e-mail and getting notices of that nature!!  
> This collection of chapters is concluded, but the adventures of these particular characters are far from over. :)  
> 


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